Patrick Sette’s searching through his mobile phone for the numbers of people he knew would be interested in his product. He scans through each name and number bring nostalgia to his previous habit and his history of supplying product. He recalls numerous text messages between him and Connor Blood, really his name was Connor Murphy but his affiliations with a local Blood gang set earned him the phone alias of Connor Blood.
“Pat looking to offload something for you. Looks like the high street boys don’t have this kind of quality so I am willing to help you out.”
Few hours goes by before he receives one back, simple with an address. He’s not sure what to do but he knows Gaetano’s waiting on his money. So he goes for it, he asks for a time and he receives one.
The Black Mustang’s engine roars even as it slows to a stop outside of the bustling apartment building in Birdgeport Homes section of Chicago. Sette brass checks the Beretta in his inner waistband hip holster and tosses his long sweatshirt over the piece. He looks over to Jimmy Amato who’s wearing similar attire but he’s got a Tec 9 compacted under his baggy center zipping sweatshirt.
The strap is over his shoulder but it’s hidden beneath his clothes. His right hand trucked all the way into his sweatshirt around the trigger. If a firefight broke out he could simply unzip his sweatshirt with his left hand and open up on the group. In the back is Irish America Chris Burns, he’s brought for intimidation factor but even he’s packing a Charter Arms Bulldog in his back waistband hidden by his track jacket.
The group of jump out in the all black neighborhood and try their best not to look conspicuous. Pat has Chris wear the backpack with the five kilos inside. His palms sweaty and his mind racing but keeps his composure and leads the group because forward to their destination. His right hand hangs close to where his handgun is just in case something happens. They head through the unlocked front door and trudge up the steps to the third floor. Pat checks his phone to make sure the address was right, he takes a deep breath and wishes he had smoked a cigarette beforehand.
He knocks twice and there is silence. Just heavy breathing on his end from nervousness and it’s not because this was his first drug deal. He’s always nervous around “Mooleys”, they don’t act like people in his opinion, they act more like animals. He’s waiting nearly two minutes before he knocks again four times and waits to hear if he can make out movement. He hears the television turn off before he can make out the faint sounds of creaking floor boards.
Then he hears the deadbolt crank back and the door opens up. A double barreled shotgun immediately flies up in Pat Sette’s face and he yells out, “Woah, woah, calm the fuck down man.”
The Black face barely visible past the business end of the shotgun smirks. A voice behind him says, “Come on Nigga, let them in, we ain’t got all night with dis shit.”
The double barreled short gun lowers and the Italian Crew leader walks in with his two other partners. As he walks inside he looks around the room and picks up movement in a back bedroom in the apartment. The gangster holding the shotgun goes to check him and Sette clicks his tongue, “We are all packing but so are you.”
“There are more of you than us,” snickers the black man on the couch in front of the television.
Pat still nervous but pushing past it to show no fear shakes his head, “What, you didn’t think you could try and rip us off? I saw the guy in the back room.”
Connor whistles and a kid comes running out, he’s no older than seven. Sette pats him on the head as he rushes past and sits down next to Murphy.
“It’s my son, Dvon, I am Connor,” he says as he extends his hand to shake Pat’s hand. “I don’t like having him around this shit but his baby mama works at the club and she refused to take him.”
Sette sits down across from him as Big Joe takes off the backpack and places it down on the table. Connor’s eyes dart over to the bag and then to his son which he brings closer to his body as he whispers something into his ear. The kid rushes off again back to the room all the way in the back and closes the door.
Connor doesn’t waste any time. Shotgun just stands there holding up the wall while he watches. Murphy unzips the backpack and pulls out the kilos. He puts them down on the table and snaps for the shotgun toting man to grab one from the back. Like a worker just caught watching Netflix on his shift he jerks awkwardly to attention to Connor’s call. The watch dog listens to his black master and pulls out a small scale from the closest drawer. He places it down and Murphy goes to measuring. Pat knows they are exactly their weight with the plastic but he figures he will let Conroy see on his own.
He weighs each one to find they are the right weight. He smiles and then slides the five kilograms off the table. Connor then turns the television channel and turns down the volume as Pat clears his throat. The Italian American squints as shotgun man leaves again to grab a bag full of cash. Burns immediately rifles through it when he places it down onto the table.
Jimmy Amato nervously shifts his weight every so often. His right-hand twitching as he waits for something simple to set him off. Pat looks over to Chris Burns who gives the thumbs up to say it’s clear of anything dangerous and seems to have everything.
Sette smiles, “Well, we will be back, either to come back for more business if everything is there or to come back for the rest of the money if it isn’t.”
Connor nods, “It’s all there. I look forward to repeat business Mr,” he pauses.
“Sette,” laughs Patrick as he stands up.
“Whose Crew do you belong to?”
“Was the Mari Crew,” smirks Pat with a sense of pride.
“Oh shit man, that guys fucking crazy.”
Cesinti shakes his head, “Who Ciro? Nah man, he was a cool guy, the guy who took over worries me more. As long as you were good, I have never seen Ciro whack a guy for no reason, this guy would kill you for the wind blowing his hair out of place. Be happy your dealing with me.”
Connor laughs, “Yeah ok, all you Italians are crazy.”
Sette shakes his head as he walks out, “See you around man.”
It’s supposed to be a short drive to the house but with the traffic downtown it takes too long. About forty minutes into their drive Pat gets tempted, it takes all his self-control not to open the bag. When they reach Condo, the Pat pulls up inside and carry the bag to the front door when he promptly heads inside.
He drops the bag down onto the table where Lucien is waiting. He immediately opens the bag and dumps the money out. He starts placing large stacks of cash together after removing their rubber bands onto the money counters. He’s the accountant or treasurer of sorts for the group. He makes sure that all the money promised is there. Patrick’s enjoying a cigarette and a scotch while the others are on guard duty.
In the other room Dominico is mixing the other ten kilograms of Cocaine with a powder base to cut it. When he’s finished, he will make the ten kilos turn into forty magically. The difference was now the cocaine was twenty-five percent pure as opposed to a hundred when they got it. This would allow them to sell more kilos and make a profit on what they still owed the their supplier.
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