Carl Weber's Kingpins: Jamaica

Book 13: Kingpins

by Racquel Williams

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Gaza was born and raised in McGregor Gully, one of Jamaica’s grittiest housing projects in the slums of East Kingston. Growing up in poverty, he was exposed to robbery and murder at a tender age. In order to stay alive, he quickly adapted to a life of crime. Now he is one of the coldest killers and richest kingpins to ever walk the streets of Kingston. Whoever comes into contact with him and his crew either loves them, fears them, or wants to see them dead. The entrance of Catherine into his life just might change everything. Catherine, a young and determined federal agent, is rapidly climbing the chain of command. When she crosses paths with this deadly, charismatic stranger on one of her assignments, she’s enchanted by his jovial ways. Soon she forgets one of the most important law enforcement lessons: Trust no one. Camille is a young Jamaican beauty who is hot on the dancehall scene. With a banging body and a good mouthpiece, she has no problem getting whatever she wants, including Gaza. She is not about to let Catherine come in and take over her spot. Betrayal and backstabbing is at a high level, and Gaza is determined to wreak havoc on anyone who stands in his way. No one is safe, not even the people closest to him. Will this young thug risk it all to maintain his power, or will he be blinded by love for the woman who was hired to bring him down?

Release date: November 27, 2018

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

It was surprising how shit had changed in the thirteen years that I’d been gone. I had left Jamaica with Mama and my sister at the age of twenty-two, and here I was, returning at thirty-five, a grown-ass man. I felt kind of funny as I stepped off the United Airlines flight that had taken me from Rhode Island to Kingston, Jamaica. Yes, I was born at Jubilee Hospital and raised in McGregor Gully. When you mentioned the Gully, niggas automatically knew what you were all about. If you were from the Gully, you already knew we were all ’bout our paper. Either we were slinging them rocks, sticking up other dope boys, or pimping bitches out. We were goin’ to get it one way or the other....

It was humid as fuck, but it felt good. I stood outside, inhaling and exhaling the air on this hot August day. I looked around me; nothing seemed familiar. The last time I was here, in my country, I was a little-ass young man. I ain’t goin’ to lie: I started feeling crazy as fuck. I felt everyone was staring at me. I knew they were aware that this was the plane that carried the deportees.

After going through customs, I finally walked out the door. People were everywhere, and cars were pulling up to the curb. I felt like I wanted to run back inside the terminal, hide from all this chaos around me. . . .

“Donavan.” I heard someone yellin’ my government. I immediately recognized the voice without seeing the face.

I looked at the crowd of people that were standing around, and there was my mama, my queen, waving at me. I smiled and pushed through the crowd, trying to get to her.

“Oh my God. My baby is free!” she screamed as she hugged me. Then she started planting kisses on my forehead.

Seconds later a car pulled up, and dude started honking his horn at us.

“Go the fuck around. You see me hugging ma child,” Mama said and flicked the man a bird.

“Come on, Mama. ’Cause if him, that pussy, say anything to you, it’s gonna be bloodshed out here today.” I was so serious, and I let it be known.

She finally let me go out of her tight embrace, pointed to her car, and climbed behind the wheel. I threw the envelopes that I had in my possession on the backseat and then got in the front passenger seat. Mama pulled off, still cussing the man out with her raw Jamaican accent, which seemed to get stronger the older she got.

“Damn, Ma. Ain’t nothing change. You still a gangsta,” I joked.

“Baby, don’t yuh start, now. You know yuh mama can handle herself.”

Her ass was nothing but about four feet five, but you couldn’t tell by her voice, which was strong whenever she spoke. Mama was the type to whup on niggas and bitches. I remembered how she used to beat this nigga Tony that she used to fuck with back when we lived in Jamaica. I mean, Mama used to use a broomstick on that nigga. It was funny as hell, because this nigga was big and bulky. He used to run out of the house, yelling cusswords until he got outside the gate. Thinking back on those good old days, I couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

“What the hell so funny, boy?”

“Ma, you remember how you used to run after Tony, hitting him with a broomstick and shit?”

“That damn fool Tony. You know he got killed a few years back? Gunmen ran up in his house in Portmore and killed him and his son. Word had it, him and his son was wrapped up in that scamming thing.”

“Really? That’s fucked up.”

“Boy, watch yo’ damn mout’,” she said with her raw Jamaican accent.

“My bad, Mama, but you do know I’m thirty-five years old now, right?”

She swung that neck around so fast and looked at me. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just easy yo’ self. You done know how do things set already.”

“Uh-huh. So how it feel to be among the free?”

“You know, I don’t really feel it as yet. Ask mi dis same question in about a month.”

“Well, I’m just happy you are here. I pray night and day fi God to let you come home to me safe and sound. And here you are, my baby,” she said.

“You done know mi a God bless and Father God not leaving my side.”

“Well, everybody is at the house, waiting fa you. They are so happy you home.”

“Oh yeah.” I smiled.

It had been thirteen years since I’d seen my family. As I said, my mom, my oldest sister, and I were the only ones that had made it to the United States. The rest of my family had stayed in Jamaica, with my grandmother. I was really excited just to be in the presence of people that I knew genuinely loved me. . . .

I watched as Mama pulled up at a gate outside the three-story crib that my money had helped build after we left Jamaica. This was one of the first things I had done when I started making money in New York. I was as proud of it as I was of the big house in New York that I had bought Mama. When the Feds had got me, they couldn’t touch neither house, ’cause Mama worked, had money in the bank, and had the houses in her name, and they couldn’t prove she knew anything about my illegal activities. My mama wasn’t no fool, and she handled her shit like a real G.

“Oh shit! This is it, Mama?” I said as she punched the code in the keypad. She waited for the gate to open and then drove up the marble driveway.

“Yes, son, this is it,” she answered as the gate swung shut behind us.

After she stopped the car and turned off the ignition, I stepped out of the car and just stood there, looking. This house was more beautiful in person than it was in the pictures I had seen.

“Gaza is here,” I heard one of brothers yell.

All I saw out of the corner of my eye was people rushing out of the house. Not just any people, though. Familiar faces ran up to me and almost knocked me to the ground.

“What’s good, family?” said the same brother who had announced my arrival. He hugged me tight. See, this was the brother that I was closest to, and he was the one that everybody said was my twin. We hugged for a good minute before my grandma interrupted.

“Mi grandbaby. Come give yo’ grandmother a big hug.” She pushed my brother out of the way.

“Grandma Rosie, what a gwaan?” I tried to use my rawest patois on her.

“Welcome home, mi baby. Come. I know you must hungry.” She took my hand and led me into the house. That didn’t stop everyone else from following behind us. The treatment that I was getting was nothing short of that afforded royalty.

My grandma ushered me into the dining room. On the long table were large bowls of curry goat, white rice, oxtails, and jerk chicken, as well as a big jar of sorrel punch. Wait, it wasn’t even Christmastime, and sorrel was being served. I smiled as I looked at the family members surrounding me. This was the place I need to be, among real family....

It was a little after 11:00 p.m., and all the festivities had died down. I kissed Grandma on the cheek after she gave me a very serious tongue-lashing about my troubles with the law. I guessed this was long overdue.

I walked out on the balcony, with a Guinness in hand, and rolled me a blunt. I welcomed this serene feeling I was experiencing right now. I took a long drag of the weed and instantly started to choke. I mean, a nigga ain’t smoked in a few years. When I first got to the pen, me and one of my cellies used to hustle the weed inside. But just as on the outside, niggas started snitching. After my cellie got caught and more time was added to the twenty years he was doing, I decided to chill out. My black ass was trying to come up out of there, not add a single day to what that bitch-ass judge had done gave me.

The house was up in the hills of Cherry Gardens and overlooked the entire downtown. The view was spectacular to a nigga that had had to look at brick buildings for over a decade. I sipped on the Guinness, took a few more pulls, being careful not to choke.

“Yo, Father, what’s the pree?” said a male voice behind me.

“Oh shit! My nigga,” I exclaimed as I turned around.

It was my right-hand man, Gio. He was my partner from back in the day, had run with me in New York.

“Yo, Father, how freedom feel?”

“Feel motherfucking good. This is what I been waitin’ on.” I looked around, inhaling the fresh Jamaican air.

“Welcome home, nigga.” He gave me dap; then he handed me a key fob and a cell phone.

“What’s this, yo?” I shot him a suspicious look.

“Go out front and see fa yourself.”

He walked back inside the house, made his way to the foyer, went out the front door, and headed down the steps to the driveway. I followed him. Outside of the crib sat a black BMW with rims. I walked over to it and stared at the beauty.

“This is your ride. Welcome home, Father,” Gio said.

I looked at him to see if this was a big joke, but he stood there, with a serious look plastered all over his face. I looked down at the key fob in my hand, didn’t see a key. “Yo, where’s the key?”

“Oh shit. I forgot you been gone for a minute. This a keyless, push-button car. Yo, we don’t drive vehicles if they not push button. Press the button on the fob and open it up.”

This was dope as shit. I looked down at the key fob, pressed the UNLOCK button. I then opened the car door, climbed in, and pressed the START button. Nothing. “Yo, what the hell? Why it ain’t starting?”

He leaned in the car. “Put yo’ foot ’pon the brake pedal.”

He then pushed the button. The car started. Yo, this was new to me. I hadn’t driven in years, but I was eager to test out my new whip.

“Hop in, nigga,” I told him.

He jumped in on the passenger side, and I pulled off. The ride started off a little rough, ’cause this baby had power and a nigga was rusty, but I quickly got it under control. I went around the block a few times, catching the stares of bitches and niggas that were hanging out late. Then we went back to the house, and we drank a bottle of Patrón that he had brought over and smoked blunts back-to-back on the balcony. It felt good to have in my presence one of my niggas who had been rolling with me from day one. It was a little after 5:00 a.m. when he rolled out and I left the balcony and went back into the house. I took a quick shower before going into my bedroom. It felt so good to be in a real bed, and not on that cot they had in jail. Before I knew it, a nigga was out....

I heard banging on the bedroom door, which woke me up out of my sleep. I jumped up, looked around. That was when I realized I wasn’t in prison. I had been in a deep sleep when the knocking startled me. . . .

“Donavan, you still sleeping?” Mama’s voice echoed through the crack in the door.

Oh shit. I had forgotten she was leaving, was going back to the States today. I was supposed to take her to the airport. I grabbed my phone and looked at the time. It was well after 12:00 p.m. “I’m up, Mama. Give me a few minutes.”

I rushed to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and grabbed one of the white T-shirts and jean shorts Mama had brought down for me. In no time, I was dressed and ready to go. I walked in the kitchen, where my grandma was sitting with an older-looking woman.

“Doris, this is the man of the house, Donavan. He will be your new boss.”

Doris stood, walked over to me, and shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, young man. I hear all good things ’bout you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Miss Doris.”

My mother walked in just then. “Your breakfast is on the dining-room table,” she said.

“Thanks, Mama, but I’m ready to take you to the airport.”

“Donavon, is who car parked out in the front?” my mother asked.

“It’s mine, Mama.”

“Is yours?” She stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, and looked at me.

That lady’s look had never changed over the years. Whenever she was displeased with any one of us, she had a special look that she would shoot our way. This time was no different, but the only thing was, I was no longer a little boy and I wasn’t afraid to face her.

“You late, right? You ’on’t wanna miss that flight,” I reminded her.

I left the kitchen, grabbed her bags in the foyer, carried them out, and then placed them in the trunk of the car. I got behind the wheel and waited for her. She finally appeared and got in the passenger seat, and then we drove off. I could tell she was feeling some type of way, ’cause her mood had changed drastically.

“Donavan . . . I know you’re grown and I can’t tell you how to live ya life, but Jamaica is not a nice place. You left here when you was a young man. Now it’s more killing. Don’t come down here and get wrap up with these bwoy down here.”

“Mama, listen, you need to stop worrying. I’m good, trust me.”

“You betta be, ’cause I don’t want to lose you. Don’t you trust none of these people down yah. You been gone too damn long to come down yah and lose your life.”

“Mama, come on. You worry too much, mon. Relax. I want you fi go home and focus on enjoying life. Trust me, I got this.”

“All right. Me warning you. My mother always say, ‘A hard head make a soft ass.’”

I burst out laughing. “Mama, you have always said the same thing too.”

She didn’t respond; instead, she turned her head and stared out the window. I cut on the music to kind of mellow out the mood.

When we reached the airport, I pulled over to the curb and unloaded Mama’s luggage. When she got out of the car, I turned to her and said, “I love you, Mama.” I hugged her tight as she professed her love for me and repeated that these people were no good.

Then I watched as she strutted into the airport terminal. When she looked back, I waved one last time. After she had disappeared inside the terminal, I hopped back in the car and pulled off.

Six months later . . .

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Gunshots rang out at Club Mirage, one of the most popular nightclubs in Kingston. I grabbed my gun as I ducked by the side of the table where me and a few niggas had been drinking liquor and vibing.

“Yo, what the fuck is that?” I said.

“Yo, some niggas up front a shoot in a di place,” my partner Gio answered.

“This the shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. This why I don’t like to be round niggas like that,” I muttered. “Now the fucking police goin’ to definitely come through.”

“Yo, let’s get out of here,” Gio urged. “I know the back way.”

“A’ight, bet.”

We all got up and made our way to the back entrance. I guessed we were not the only ones aware of it, ’cause bitches and niggas were making their way out the door also. Soon as we got outside, multiple police cars were pulling up.

I dashed to my car, jumped in, and sped off, wanting to get far away from the chaos that was taking place back there. My phone started ringing. It was my nigga.

“Yo.”

“Man, I hear it’s the nigga Yellow Man from Grants Pen that got killed tonight.”

“Yellow Man? I don’t remember him, but damn, that’s fucked up, B. These niggas making the spot hot as fuck. I’m glad we got the fuck up outta there, yo.”

“Yeah, yo, anyways, I’ma head to this catty house on Waltham. Link you in the a.m.”

“A’ight, yo.”

Shit. It was late, and after all that had happened tonight, I guessed I was going to call it a night. I got some shit to do in the morning, and I needed a fresh mind in order to execute these plans.

Being back in Jamaica was cool and everything. I had been trying to stay out the spotlight because it had been years since I lived here. But shit was getting hectic now; money was getting tight. I had started out fucking with the ganja, but truthfully, there wasn’t no big money in it. It was just jump change compared to what I was used to making. So it was time to put some big plan into motion, and I already got some niggas in mind.

After eating some breakfast, I decided to meet up with my big homie Gio around the way. I’d hadn’t been to McGregor Gully since I got back to Jamaica. But my niggas still frequented the area and had a stronghold on everything that went on around there. So that was where I was headed today.

I jumped in my car and headed out. Money was on my mind, and there was nothing or no one that was going to stand in the way of that. I was a boss that was used to four or five cars at a time, multiple houses in different cities. This poor shit, living dollar to dollar or depending on Mom Dukes to send money from the United States, was not for me. I was a grown-ass man, and I was going to get rich by any means possible.

As I cruised through the slum of the Gully, it saddened me to see how people were still living even after all these years. What made it worse was the fact that these politicians would come out here close to election time and would offer fake-ass promises, give out a few jobs, distribute a few bags of flour and sugar, and hand out a few dollars, just enough to grab the attention of the poor people. In return, the people would go out and vote for these d. . .