Carl Weber's Kingpins: Brooklyn

by Brandie Davis

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

In the eighties and nineties, Wesley Evans, better known as Ruby, was Brooklyn’s wealthiest, longest reigning kingpin. Accomplishing all it took to make history, including rubbing elbows with celebrities and expanding his businesses out of state, he avoided all the bounties put on his head and NYPD’s handcuffs.
Ruby set the bar in Brooklyn, and when he finally became a legit family man, he left behind rules that would ensure not only success, but also humility, for the kings who would follow him.
1)Do not sell to pregnant women.
2)Do not sell to kids thirteen and under.
3)Respect the neighborhood elders.
4)Give back to the community twice a year.
Ten years later, each of Brooklyn’s kingpins has followed in Ruby’s footsteps, making it out with their lives, freedom, and ridiculous amounts of money. Life is good; Brooklyn’s people are good—and then Felix Brown, aka Straw, comes into power. Straw sucks Brooklyn dry.
No one is off limits, and following another man’s rules is a no-go.
Living out his life stress-free in the Bahamas, Ruby receives a call from his protégé, informing him of the deadly turn Brooklyn has taken under Straw’s control. Ruby had left that life alone, but how can he continue living the good life when his home is in shambles?
What kind of king allows his kingdom to fall? Ruby’s coming home. He thought he was out, but he’s not.

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Brooklyn, New York

March 1973

Wesley welcomed the cool air that danced along his forehead, books clutched to his chest as the spring breeze slid its way between his short, shiny charcoal ’fro. It shoved out the force needed to push his feet forward quicker. Mama timed his voyage from school to home, belt at hand and ready for takeoff whenever his trip resulted in delays. Wesley pushed himself down Brooklyn’s concrete sidewalks that spit up sad attempts of greenery through their cracks faster with every person he passed by. He caught pieces of giggling schoolgirl conversations, and he couldn’t help but wonder whose face they visualized and gawked over.

Like a vehicle in a movie’s high-speed chase scene, Wesley made a sharp turn on the corner of Broadway and Hancock, where he temporarily stopped and caught his breath. School books still stapled to his chest, he stood erect and looked up at the sky. Mouth open, he breathed heavily in and out. The group of ponytail- and skirt-wearing girls he had outwalked minutes prior strolled past him. Not far in the lead, they looked behind themselves and snickered at what they labeled “dramatic breathing.” Wesley lowered his head before making eye contact with the one who laughed the hardest. He smiled bashfully and listened to their giggles until they crossed the street, turned the corner, and made it out of sight.

“Wes! Wes!”

Wesley looked to his left at the person who had said his name. Ruby was dressed loud and rich as ever.

Wesley proceeded to walk. “Ruby, I can’t wait around. Walk and talk.”

Ruby jogged his way. The sound of his platforms banging against the ground was an unwelcomed, annoying distraction.

“I forgot Mrs. May want you in that house immediately.” Ruby playfully slapped the back of Wesley’s head.

Wesley felt around where Ruby had hit. His friend’s strong hand, luckily, hadn’t patted his hair down.

“That’s Mrs. Evans to you. Now, you know Mama told you since you were seven to refer to her as Mrs. Evans.”

Wesley looked across the street. He was approaching and noticed the traffic light had turned red the moment his eyes touched down on it.

“Dammit!” He slapped one of his hands on his left hip and faced Ruby. “Fooling with you, I done missed the light.” He turned to the moving traffic and sucked his teeth.

“Man, you’re the oldest young person I know. You’re so serious down to how you dress.” Ruby looked Wesley up and down. His chestnut face scrunched up, and his head moved from side to side. “Man, those threads are tired.”

Wesley gave himself a once-over, starting with his pristine blue-and-white shell-toe sneakers only worn to school, bell bottom jeans, and ivory turtleneck. A wave of insecurity slammed down over him. The questionable feelings that took over and made him feel inferior in the clothing department led him to hear his father’s voice. Toughen up, boy. Don’t let anyone talk to you any kinda way.

Wesley ripped his eyes off his clothing and slammed them on Ruby’s outfit. “Man, look who’s talking. You look like a Soul Train reject.”

Ruby gasped loudly just before he extended his right leg that was kept warm in black bell bottoms, folded his arms, and declared, “I look good!”

“You look like a fool.” Wesley insulted Ruby without taking his eyes off the cars that slowed down. What felt like it was taking entirely too long only took seconds because the light changed, and he was permitted to walk across the street. Wesley’s fast walking turned into a light jog. Ruby kept up with a few steps of his long legs.

“This is the style!” Ruby held open his purple beaded vest. The fringes on the bottom jumped in all directions. His silk long-sleeve purple button-down was set off with a wide, long collar.

“So!” Wesley spat. His arms tightened around his books that were now back on his chest.

“So? You jive turkey! Style is everything. Look at this!” Ruby grabbed Wesley by the shoulder, forcing him to stop walking and face him.

“Maann, if you don’t stop slowing me down!”

“You see this, youngblood?” Ruby rustled a gold chain with a diamond and red ruby pendant out from his shirt and wiggled it in front of Wesley. “A ruby for a Ruby. Cool, right?” Ruby’s large teeth took up almost half his face when he smiled. “You need to get you one of these, brotha. Then maybe I’ll think you’re stylin’.” He looked down at the books glued to his friend and patted them. “Then get you a backpack, youngblood. Those days of bootstraps and book holding are long gone.”

Wesley pushed his hand away. “Stop calling me youngblood. Youngblood, you’re thirteen, one year older than me. And where’d you get the money for that? Last time you had big cash you were—” Wesley stopped talking. “Shit, man. You pushin’—”

“That heroin, soul brother.” Ruby fixed his gigantic collar and spun around one full time.

A tall woman with afro puffs on each side of her head walked by hand in hand with a man whose size met hers.

“You working for JoJo?” Wesley asked.

“Yeah, man, who else?” Ruby continued walking.

“Rumors are going around that someone working for JoJo is stealing from him. A young head. Ruby, don’t tell me you’re—”

Three loud popping noises filled the streets.

The books Wesley had securely held on to slipped out of his grasp and met the city’s concrete as soon as Ruby’s blood and inner tissue splashed and soiled his face and turtleneck. In the midst of women hollering, school kids and neighborhood residents bolting for safety, Wesley’s feet remained planted on the ground while urine raced down his legs. Gumball-sized teardrops tumbled down his cheeks and inside his slightly agape, trembling mouth.

With a slight pitch in his voice, the name Goldie slid from Wesley’s tongue. His tears intensified, and his mouth momentarily ceased movement. Circuits between his head and his mouth must have malfunctioned. That was the only logical explanation for why a twelve-year-old, whose common sense surpassed a majority of adults, would voice the identity of a man who killed for pay.

Wesley reluctantly took in the sight of his friend sprawled out, submerged in blood, without the back of his head. The big, bad man, Brooklyn’s monster, draped in a vest of gold chains that sat on top of a wide-collar black-and-gold silk shirt, looked Wesley’s way. His leather cowboy hat hugged the left side of his head, allowing for his bald head to breathe on the right. He responded to the kid’s slip of the tongue.

“Yeah, youngblood, it’s me, the big bad wolf, Goldie.” He gave a small, fast smile.

Right after the kindly jest, he looked down at his mark. “Aye, Ruby. Aye! JoJo has something he wants you to know. You’re fired!”

Wesley’s hands shook. He needed to hold on to something. He needed his books. He needed a sense of comfort.

“Aye! You hear me?” Goldie nudged at Ruby’s leg, using the tip of his cowboy boot.

Ruby’s body lightly rocked. The movement caused a loose chunk of cranium to detach and slither to the ground. Within Wesley’s stomach, a race ensued as his lunch outran his breakfast and made it out his mouth. Brown and white moist chunks saturated the covers of his academic and recreational books. Wesley let out whatever his insides had left next to a tree.

Although his literature was destroyed by brain matter and vomit, a small voice inside his head held on to the belief that they could be salvaged. After he caught his breath and wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his shirt, he went for the reads. Wesley held up his English book by the spine with his thumb and pointer finger. The once-crisp white pages now dripped with mucus and blood. The printed black words were a running blur.

“Aye! What’s your name?”

Wesley’s attention snapped to Goldie. “Wesley,” he whispered.

“Speak up!” Goldie demanded.

“Wesley!” he loudly voiced. “Wesley!”

“Wesley, do me a favor and tell your friend what JoJo said.”

Wesley sucked in his lips and looked at his friend’s remains. Immediately, he cleared his throat and said out loud, “JoJo says you’re fired, Ruby.” He cleared his voice box once more, then looked at Goldie. The soiled book still lingered between his two fingers.

“Thank you, Wesley. You know, for some reason when I’m working, these guys never hear me. They seem to respond better to others.”

“Well, Mr. Goldie.”

“Just Goldie.”

“Sorry, Goldie. Ruby’s not in the best of shape to answer you right now.”

Goldie kicked Ruby for the last time. “I guess you’re right,” he muttered. He slid his firearm in the back of his pants when he noticed the books at Wesley’s feet. “Hey! What’s with you fucking up Toni Morrison and Mario Puzo’s work?”

This guy knows who Toni Morrison and Mario Puzo are?

Goldie picked up The Godfather, and with the palm of his gloved hand, cleaned off the cover. Witnessing its damage up close, he sucked his teeth and confiscated The Bluest Eye out of the body fluids. He pushed what fragments he could off of the piece of literature.

“This is a damn shame.” Goldie pouted. “There’s one thing the man can’t take away from no brotha, and that’s what’s in here.” Mario Puzo in hand, Goldie jammed his finger into the side of his head. He stared for a long time at Wesley. Wesley took a short step backward. Goldie tucked the ruined authors’ works under his arm and dug inside his pocket.

“Here. Take this.” He handed Wesley a fifty-dollar bill. Buy your books over and keep reading. A smart brotha is a strong brotha.”

Wesley reached for the cash. His fingertips were coated in blood. When he touched the money, an unsettling, nerve-mounting sense of guilt invaded him.

“Thank you,” he fought to say. Stuck in place alone on a street where bystanders had taken off, he did what he thought best. He kept talking. “Goldie. You killed Ruby in daylight on a busy street. You should go before the police get here.”

“Youngblood, they’re already here.” Goldie nodded behind Wesley. The kid followed the killer’s eyes to a cop car that sat on the corner of the last street Wesley had to cross to make it home.

“Crackers require a lot of money to look the other way. Tsk, tsk, tsk. But they’re not my problem at the moment. Do you know what the problem of the day is, Wesley?”

Goldie’s stare made Wesley’s skin turn cold.

“No. I don’t.”

“JoJo’s down a youngblood. Ruby’s caused a glitch in the system. A glitch in need of quick repair.”

“I’m sorry for your dilemma.”

“I like you, Wesley. You’re smart. You use words like dilemma.” Goldie snickered. “You’d be an upgrade from Ruby, you know?”

No. Oh, no. He wants me to work for JoJo. Be what? The organization’s blind spot? Kids are hard to connect to people like JoJo.

“I don’t understand.”

“You do. But just in case you don’t, you now work for JoJo. Ruby made me look bad. I brought him in, and he made trouble. Now I must right that wrong.” Goldie smiled and nodded. He had a tooth missing on the side of his mouth.

“Goldie, I—”

“Will do whatever the fuck I say, or I’ll put a hole in your fucking brain.”

Wesley thought he heard a heartbeat. He settled for believing the muscle racing like a track star belonged to him, because the dead, glazed-over look in Goldie’s eyes proved he had no heart.

“Keep reading those books, youngblood. I’m sure they’ll help you, but I’m your new career venture. I’ll see you after school tomorrow.” Goldie looked down at Ruby. “Nephew, you finally made me proud. Had you not been such a fuck up, I’d never have met Wesley.” Goldie smiled.

Then he said, “Oh, look at this. Boy done went shopping.” Goldie ripped Ruby’s ruby from around his neck. He shoved his hand in his pocket, and then turned to leave with Wesley’s two books and Ruby’s chain in his possession. However, Goldie didn’t allow his nephew’s new purchase to fill the lining of his pocket for long before he took it right back out and tossed it to Wesley.

“Consider this a welcome gift, youngblood. You’re our new Ruby.”

Queens, New York

January 1975

One week after Miles’ aunt’s divorce was finalized, she left behind all furnishings she had worked her fingers to the white meat to earn. The terrorizing carousel known as her marriage had finally shut down, which gave her the opportunity to uproot and start fresh in New York, where her family and friends were at their strongest.

Haddy had to rebuild her dream apartment out of the lack of sleep and double shifts she forced her body to take on, but it was worth it. Worth decorating a home that didn’t house her jobless, junky husband. The sunshine walls and kitchen appliances represented her rainbow after the storm; the rich wooden cabinets, her strength; and the green-and-yellow vinyl flooring, her wild side. Haddy’s home was the desired child her ex never allowed her body to have. It was all she had, all she trusted and loved, second to her nephew, Miles.

Miles was her older sister’s son, whom Haddy had convinced her sister to keep despite his deafness. Haddy had bonded with Miles long before he accomplished any childhood milestones, and that love was what led her to allow him to house sit.

“Do not have anyone in my house, Miles,” Haddy signed. “And water my plants. All of them.”

Miles nodded profusely. Haddy had repeated the same thing every day leading up to her one-week vacation to Hawaii. The bothered look defining Miles’ face made her drop her luggage and pull him in for a hug. Behind him, her eyes were closed, and she patted his back.

After she released, him she told him, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to act like your mother. I trust you.”

Miles tried to turn his back, but Haddy grabbed him and held him in place by both shoulders. “Understand, besides you, this place is a big deal for me. I can finally rest without that junk stumbling in during all hours of the night and don’t have to worry while at work if my valuables will be there when I got back or was lost in some damn bet.”

Miles’ grimace died down. The truth of his aunt’s past twisted his heart with every mention of it. I should have gone with her when she left New York. I could have protected her and kept her from marrying that wanker. I could have done better for myself.

Miles threw his hands up. “I can dig it. Your pad is safe with me.”

Haddy beamed. Seeing that he was watching her lips, she said. “Good! Now give me some skin.”

Miles rolled his eyes and smiled. Their palms slapped against one another, followed by the backs of their hands.

“You’re one cool brotha. You know that, Miles?”

“Miles!”

Mayo waved his hand in front of Miles’ face. The wind created by his heavy hand woke up Miles’ nerves as he forced his sight on his friend.

“You cool?” Mayo sucked his teeth and repeated his question using sign. For ten years, the two had been friends, yet occasions still rose when Mayo slipped up and forgot his best friend was deaf.

Miles threw his hand up and slid his bony knees fully under the kitchen table. He grabbed the meat mallet and continued to crush the Hawaiian baby woodrose. Wham! Wham! He beat the light brown seeds harder than needed.

Mayo turned around and scanned the area for what hypnotized Miles. Nothing from the busy sunk-in living room stood out as reason enough to fixate. The dragon trees and humongous arrow mural stretching across the room were nothing new. And then he saw it—the photograph taken of Miles and his aunt during last year’s Fourth of July block party. He remembered that party. Mrs. Watson had snapped the shot of the two engaged in giving one another some skin. Haddy had surprised everyone that day and made it known she was back in Queens for good. That picture was taken that day. Miles couldn’t have ripped the smile off his face if he wanted to.

Good times, Mayo thought.

Slowly, he walked over to his friend. He wiped his hands on the small apron he had forced onto his heavy frame and slid on the cushioned kitchen chair across from Miles. Before he spoke, he wiggled around in the seat. If he hugged the left side of the chair, his right butt cheek hung over the side, and vice versa. So, he squirmed around in his seat in search of the most comfortable spot.

Although Mayo knew sign language, he could not help but speak in a hushed tone. “It’s not what you think. He didn’t do it. JoJo did not kill Ms. Haddy. Not everyone who dies in New York is at the hands of my brother.” Mayo’s beady hazel eyes pleaded with Miles to hear him out.

Miles banged the mallet down harder on the seeds. The table rumbled, and seed fragments hung in the air. Three pounds later, Miles dropped the small club.

“This is not right.” Miles’ hands raged. “What he’s making us do in my aunt’s apartment is not right. Had he loved her, I wouldn’t be doing this, and this . . . experimenting wouldn’t be done here.” He turned his nose up at the small mountain of woodrose, then grimaced at the three food dehydrators drying pieces of mushrooms on the kitchen counters.

“You have to admit, Miles. Cooking here was a pretty good idea. I mean, we’re in a good part of Queens away from Brooklyn, and a lot of people—”

The twitching in one of Miles’ eyes and the hard grind of his teeth momentarily stopped Mayo from signing.

He started again. “Umm, I’m just saying if you—”

Miles stood out of his seat. The unpredictable, swift action made Mayo push his chair back instantly.

With every hand motion, Miles added an emphasis to every other word by pounding and banging his hands. “He may not have done it himself, because we all know who gets his hands dirty for him. But he did order it,” he signed furiously. “It was no mugging gone wrong. Everyone in Queens loved her.”

Mayo moved his seat back some more. “You heard what the police said. A junkie on a bad trip did it.”

Miles shook his head. “Haddy knew that junkie. Gave him cash every time she saw him. He had no reason to rob and kill her.”

Miles’ hands moved so quickly that Mayo almost couldn’t translate what he was saying. Mayo pointed to his lips. Slowly, he said, “Consciences and friendships don’t exist for junkies.”

Miles’ hands replied, “Now read my hands. JoJo’s responsible. He’s the only one besides me who knew when Haddy was returning from her trip. Haddy was big-time cautious because she didn’t like the night. So, when she had to come home at night, she took a completely different way in comparison to the everyday Queens head. Her way took her out of the way, but it was safer. Nowhere near where junkies hang.”

Miles paused. The emotions in his heart had worked their way up to his chest, passed his neck, and into his eyes. He blinked three long, hard times. When the pain tumbled back down into his soul where he kept it locked away, he spoke more calmly.

“Again. Besides me. JoJo knew this. He set her up. I know it.” The veins in Miles’ neck bulged out. The temperature in his skin raised, and he stood there numb.

Mayo slid his chubby hand down his butter-colored face. Dull and with a lack of energy in his hands, he asked, “Why would he kill his girlfriend, Miles?”

Miles slammed himself down in his chair. He removed his thick-brimmed glasses from his face and set them down. He dropped his face inside the palms of his hands, where he took several deep breaths. When he finished, he took his face out of hiding, looked into the eyes of his childhood friend, and sighed, “I don’t know.”

“Mayo, Miles, this is Hendrix. He’ll be assisting in our projects. Extra hands are needed.” Ruby grabbed Hendrix by the sleeve of his shirt and forced his left arm up, only to drop it when he finished speaking. Hendrix gave his arm and Ruby a look.

Miles locked the door behind Ruby and his guest, whose arms were riddled with muscles and whose wardrobe looked like it belonged to the Black Panthers.

“We don’t need no help, Ruby.” Mayo pulled his mother’s knee highs he used as a stocking cap off his head. He walked farther into the foyer, where Ruby and the newbie stood. “We’re on schedule. All that’s needed is for you to give the word, and we’ll start the process of syncing the woodrose with the heroin.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Ruby moved the book he held from one hand to the other. The insides of both hands were roughened with calluses. His knuckles were dry and overwhelmed by tiny slits. “But we still need additional hands on board to cook the heroin. While you two primarily oversee the handling of the Amanita muscaria mushrooms and Hawaiian baby woodrose, he”—Ruby’s thumb pointed at the new chief—“will cook up the heroin. Whether these ideas work or not, we still need to have our money train on track.”

Mayo nodded.

“What language are you speaking, youngblood? What the hell is an Amanita muscaria mushroom? Just say mushroom,” Hendrix said.

The room momentarily fell into a lull, until Mayo stepped forward and offered his hand. “What’s happening, my man? You can call me Mayo.”

Hendrix looked at Mayo’s stained hand and sucked his teeth. He turned to Ruby. “That’s where I’m cooking?” He pointed to the kitchen.

Head low, Mayo’s small noggin swayed from left to right. “Ruby,” he called out. Mayo used his head to guide Ruby in the direction that led out of the foyer. Ruby followed behind Mayo, and Miles behind him.

“Stay here,” he ordered Hendrix.

Inside the living room, Mayo placed both hands at his sides and let out a long, exaggerated breath of air. “I don’t like the cut of that boy’s jib”

Ruby and Miles’ eyes temporarily met. Ruby was tempted to repeat Mayo’s statement, or if not, then laugh in sheer entertainment over his elderly choice of speech.

I think I heard my grandma say that before, Ruby thought.

Ruby’s photogenic memory flipped through the files JoJo kept on each of his workers. Their government names, physical appearances, contact information, date of birth. . .