Unzipped: An Urban Erotic Tale (10 page)

The girl screamed as her lips tore and the roof of her mouth was shredded. She bucked backward in fear and pain, and Mookie’s real dick got hard just from the look of stone-cold terror that was radiating from her eyes.

He slid his monster grip around to her throat and applied more deadly pressure.

“Hold still, ho. And suck this fuckin’ dick! And if you ever wanna see the fuckin’ sun rise again …” Mookie’s voice was just a deadly whisper as he jerked and twisted the barbed metal rod, mercilessly tearing her flesh and loosening her teeth. “… then you better suck it
good
!”

The first time Mookie had elicited fear in the eyes of a grown man it had sent a thrill through his body that almost made him nut. The dude’s name was Onion and he was Mookie’s first cousin. Onion had thrown some loaded dice during a cee-low game in a crowded bar, prompting Mookie to lose a big pot of cash to a small-time chump. Mookie had nutted the fuck up, dragging Onion outta the gambling room and slinging him behind the bar counter, raging and muscling the skinny dude up as he turned on the blender that was used to make daiquiries. Mookie had pushed the button for crushed ice and made a nice strawberry daiquiri right outta Onion’s hand, making sure he ground the shit outta those same fingers that Onion had used to toss those hot dice.

Mookie had been working for an old street hustler called Capo back then. Capo had been one of those fly, pretty niggahs when he was in his prime. He’d had the kind of solid, muscular body that chicks craved for and men slaved for. But Capo was an old head now, one of the few gangstas who had survived the streets long enough to reach senior-citizen status in the game. After years of stacking his cream and running his empire with his eyes cocked at every angle, Capo was heading to Florida to relax and live the good life in the sun, and he was turning everything he’d amassed on the streets over to Mookie.

“It’s all yours,” Capo told Mookie, glancing around at his stomping grounds as he climbed into his brand-new Mercedes
sedan. He had two foxy young bitches in the backseat who were retiring from the game right along with him. “I done gave you everything I could give you and I didn’t hold shit back. I gave you the secrets to my success just as if you were my very own son. But watch out, Mookie,” Capo warned. “You and me are more alike than you think. When I was a young man I was real handsome, ya know? Had chicks all over me and niggahs hatin’ like hell. My good looks mighta got me into a whole lotta pussy, but they got me into a whole lotta trouble too. I had to learn to lay low, Mookie. Learn to stay outta sight. The less I was seen, the less I was envied and hated.

“You gonna have the exact same problem if you ain’t careful too. You’s a dirt-ugly black muhfuckah, Mookie, and it’s hard for you to hide, ya feel me? A muhfuckah ain’t gotta see you but one time to remember you for life. And I ain’t tryna disrespect you or your feelings either, that’s just the truth. Remember that shit you pulled with Onion in that bar that time? Man, don’t you never let nothing like that happen no more. I don’t know what you was thinking that night, but you went about ya shit all wrong, man. All wrong. You played a stupid man’s game, Mookie, and I know I schooled you better than that.”

Mookie nodded. Capo was a don, and Mookie knew he had learned the art of stackin’ chips from one of the best.

“Dig,” Capo went on. “The only reason I’ve stayed outta the joint and I’m alive to take this ride down 95 with enough cream to see me to the end of my days is because I got real smart real fast, son. You gonna have to get smart too, Mookie. You gonna wanna keep a low profile, man. Real low. Stay off the streets and for God’s sake, stay outta them goddamn clubs. Lay low and hustle above the radar. I’ll say it again because it bears repeating: you got an unforgettable look to you, my man. You ugly, Mook. Believe
that. Whether it be a rival or a Roscoe, you gonna be remembered everywhere you go.”

Capo’s seat belt slid out automatically from its retractable holder, and when he turned the key in the Mercedes’ engine that baby purred like a pussy-stroked bitch.

“Remember,” he warned again with a stern look. “Seldom seen, seldom heard. That’s the secret to staying on top in this game. A niggah like Onion cross you and you wanna get at him? Cool. You a G. Teach him his lesson. But let your goonies put the work in. Don’t invite dirt to grow under your own fingernails. And never, ever, be so flagrant with your shit that somebody can draw a line back to you. Always keep your crew in the middle, Mookie. Dead center between you and the dirt. Otherwise, it’s like shittin’ where you sleep, ak. A big no-no.

“So unless you wanna leave footprints for the feds to follow, let that dumb shit with Onion be a lesson learned. Fuck around like that again and it won’t be long before them Alphabet Boys come knockin’ for you.”

Mookie couldn’t do a damn thing but stay silent and listen. For the last five years he had been a good pupil and had learned the trappings at the knee of his teacher. Mookie knew he was bad ugly, but he was also smart enough to know the value of street wisdom, and if anybody had some to give away it was damn sure his man Capo. And right now he was properly checked and chastened because he knew Capo was spittin’ some straight-up gospel truth in his ears.

And truth was the only thing that could keep him free, Mookie knew. The way he’d handled that shiesty fuck Onion was more than dangerous. It was plain dumb. Wildin’ out in public like that was an engraved invitation for five-oh to walk dead into his crib and grab a chair.

But Mookie was a rager by nature and the streets could get the best of the most temperate of niggahs in this game. A muhfuckah was always gonna try you, and Mookie knew that. Shoving Onion’s hand into a roaring blender had been plain wrong. Yeah, that niggah had got what he deserved for flipping loaded dice, but the situation should have been dealt with far more discreetly, Mookie admitted. He had been trained by one of the best gangstas to ever rule the streets of Harlem, and if he wanted to follow in Capo’s footsteps and retire to Florida as a rich old man, he was gonna have to do like Capo said and stay low in the trenches.

Although Capo had left New York for good, his words forever rang in Mookie’s ears. Mookie followed his boss’s street mantra like it was a religion. He stayed away from the usual street haunts and played it low-key whenever he was out and about. He had enough bank to floss and shine, but instead he dressed down in bland colors and the kind of nondescript shit that made fat men seem invisible. He bought a fly whip but he put it in one of his cousin’s names, and he always rode in the backseat, where the windows were tinted. He did the same thing with the sweet penthouse apartment he rented in Midtown, he eased in and out like a furry little mouse and was seldom seen and seldom heard.

In short, Mookie played his shit smart. He surrounded himself with a crew of strong-hearted niggahs who had been loyal to him and Capo for years, and he built a fortress around himself that was damn near impenetrable.

Day in and day out, Mookie practiced what Capo had preached. He built his empire up until he was the moneyman behind the local strip clubs, controlled the local drug flow, ran a prosperous stolen-identity ring, and bankrolled the largest gambling operation that Harlem had ever seen. Mookie dipped two
fingers into every moneymaking pocket known in the hood, and licked every pie that even looked like it might be sweet.

And to protect himself from both the come-ups and the take downs, Mookie did just like Capo had told him. He rode real low and developed vices that didn’t require him to be on the front line all the time in order to enjoy them. Sure, Mookie socialized sometimes and he loved himself a nice shot of neck pussy every now and then, but the thing he loved most required an unshakeable courage, a bold confidence, and a whole lot of sweet green gwap.

Mookie was a man who studied the odds and who lived for the game of chance.

Mookie Murdock was a gambler.

B
ut sometimes it’s the very thing you love so much that has the power to throw you off your game, and when it came to his number one vice, Mookie just didn’t fuck around.

Sure, he had mad bank rolling in from multiple sources like the gully clubs, his drug operations, and the strung-out chicken-heads he kept on the poles and out on the track, but Mookie wasn’t overly impressed by any of that. Those things were just a bunch of spokes on the hub of his core business. He fronted the money and ate the bulk of the profits, but he paid a competent crew to handle all the day-to-day runnings of those routine business ventures and he rarely got personally involved.

To Mookie, it didn’t matter how much cream he skimmed off somebody else’s back, it was just business. But the bank he earned from his gambling skills … that was
passion
. Gambling doe was real special in Mookie’s eyes because it was all him. It was doe that he amassed like a man, from the strength of his keen intuition
and from the heart it took to put his money where his mothafuckin’ mouth was. That kind of posture required intestinal courage and commanded mad respect in gambling circles. Not many betting men had such keen logic on when to hold and when to fold, but Mookie had developed a sixth sense that told him exactly when to push forward and when to fall back. Odds that looked long to other men looked like opportunities for great reward to Mookie, and he always placed a bet with the full expectation of profiting immensely from his wins.

And that’s why fuckin’ around with stupid niggahs was so dangerous for Mookie. He had slipped up and exposed his throat twice since taking the reins from Capo’s hands. And each time it had been a hard stumble. A major mistake. He had messed around and lost control behind that thing that was closest to his heart, allowing himself to be exposed to the regular fools on the street and the feds as well.

The first time had been at a racetrack in New Jersey.

The night before, Mookie had had a most vivid dream. In his dream he was shooting pool at an old Harlem joint called T.C.’s Place, and all kinds of crazy numbers were spinning around on the colorful balls as he racked them. Mookie had woken up in a sweat. Like his grandmother, Mookie was heavily into signs, and he’d reached for a notepad he kept next to his bed and immediately written down all the numbers he’d seen on the little pool balls. He had taken the first and last letter of each number and played scramble with them until they spelled out a name. And when Mookie saw that one of the long-shot drivers on the track that day had a similar first name as the one he’d deciphered from his dream, he was pumped. It was a sign, sure as shit.

But his man Gallon who usually placed his bets musta been feeling himself that day. He fucked around and put Mookie’s shit in all ass-backward. He bet on the car driven by a cat named Jason
instead of Jase like Mookie had told him, so instead of sitting in the stands and basking in the thrill of the win as his long-shot driver came around the track and crossed the finish line first, Mookie was treated to the agony of defeat as he came up empty-handed and lost a gwap behind some dumb niggah’s stupidity.

“You gone fuck around and kill him” was the warning his right-hand manz Yoda gave him as Mookie leaped over chairs and down two rows to choke the shit outta the fool who had caused him to lose his bank. “You got eyes on you, Mook,” Yoda warned, glancing around at the curious crowd of racing fans. “You got a whole lotta eyes.”

Mookie didn’t even hear that shit. The spectators sitting in the row Mookie landed in screamed and scattered. They didn’t know where the fuck this mad black gorilla had come flying out of the air from, and they knocked each other down trying to get away from him.

“Yo, that’s your cuz, man,” Yoda said quietly. “He’s loyal, yo. He been grinding for you a long time, Mook.”

Mookie was blinded by his rage. All he could feel was the tremendous pain and disappointment of losing a bet. He put all his weight on Gallon, bending him backward over the seat and strangling him as people in the crowd frantically called for security and looked on, stunned.

Mookie was on a mission. He squeezed Gallon’s throat until that niggah’s eyes bulged out and foam started leaking from the corners of his mouth.

Above him, Yoda stayed cool as he watched his boss wild out. He gave a fuck about Gallon, but the po-po would be there in a minute and his job was to keep Mookie out of hot water.

“Yo, go get the whip!” Yoda barked at his boy Donut. “Drive that shit right over there on the other side of that fence and ram
that bitch. Make a hole, niggah! Right next to these fuckin’ bleachers!”

Yoda turned his attention back to Mookie. “Yo, Mook, Gallon is fam, man. His moms took yours to the hospital when she got sick, remember? They was sisters, man, and your moms died in her arms. That old lady did right by you, Mook. That’s her son, dude.”

Mookie kept right on squeezing. It was true that Gallon was his cousin and that his moms had been good to Mookie, loving him, feeding him, and clothing him when he was a kid. But these days Mookie was strictly about his fuckin’ money, and none of that family shit meant a damn thing stacked up against his gambling loss.