Chapter 27
Pone missed taking the elevator down to the basement to play Poker. He even missed his
Poker playing buddies. He had seen Sonny and Stick, which was helpful in helping him deal
with this gut-wrenching case. As for Ben, he hoped things were working out with Mercury
to solve his problem.
The elevator doors opened and just as he asked Birdie to do with his guest; there they were seated
across from one another were the two king pins of the Hip-Hoppers and Prohibitions. Pone had
them placed at one of the medium sized round poker tables.
Macone seemed a lot older than the last time he’d seen him, but the man did lose a daughter.
But that didn’t stop him from looking like the true mobster: hair slicked back, dyed black, wearing
a gray pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie. Pone couldn’t tell who was suffering more
from their child’s death. He’d probably give the edge to Macone whose once strong thick body
was shriveling into a frail fossil. G. was used to death within his family. He’d lost uncles, aunts,
cousins, siblings, nieces, and nephews all trying to cash in on blood money with their own blood
must have hit home. Dressed in a black silk shirt, charcoal suit, black bandanna, dark shades,
and a gold chain with the initials RG representing his son. A true hip-hopper if he ever saw one.
The only thing Pone had in common with the two ancients was that his wealth also came from
blood money. Pone stood at the table.
“Gentlemen, glad you both could make it. Drink?”
“Mash,” said Macone strongly.
“T-bird,” said G.
Pone nodded. “Whiskey it is.”
Pone hated whiskey. Behind the bar, he saw his malt drink Malta Goya, a non-alcoholic
beverage, but if he had to get his drink on it be Samuel Adams and Baileys’ Irish Cream, but out
of respect he’d have a shot of whiskey with the geezers. Pone grabbed three shot glasses and
a bottle of Crown Royal. Pone returned to the table. Poured and watched Macone and G. down
their shots while he nursed his.
“Soft,” smirked G.
“Anything but,” said Pone. “Staying off the sauce keeps my reflexes sharp.”
G. toasted Pone.
“All right all ready, “ growled Macone. “What is this, a tea party?”
“We all can agree that the shoot-out at the club wasn’t over territory,” said Pone.
“North Graham ain’t exactly on the west side,” said Macone.
G. threw down a shot and poured another. “Either way, the silver spoons are more than
welcome to check out some black pudding.”
Macone laughed and toasted G. “Back in the day it was brown sugar.”
“Things have changed,” said G.
“Not all for the better,” murmured Macone. “We now share a bond.”
“What if I can get you both satisfaction and closure,” intervened Pone.
“Ain’t that what you supposed to do anyway?” asked G.
“How soon can you deliver?” asked Macone.
Pone turned over his shot glass and leaned back. He studied the two kings like he was
playing a high stakes poker game. He had his ace and he planned to play it at the right
moment.
“I want a deal,” said Pone.
Macone and G. eyed each other.
“What? A piece of the action … what?” asked Macone.
“He ain’t talkin’ about no money,” said G.
“Immunity,” said Pone.
Macone gulped down his shot. “What’re you a fuckin’ diplomat?′
Pone glared and swallowed hard at Macone. “A knight in the royal family and I don’t get no
respect. If you want things to continue as they are then you better start taking a big section in
want ads of the blab sheet.”
Macone downed his shot with a purpose. “You got some balls Pone. I’ll give you that,”
“Bodacious,” said G.
Macone shrugged. “Your name sends chills. What are you talkin’ about?”
G. poured a shot and downed the hatch. He sighed and looked at Pone. “You want a hassle
free passage through our territories.”
“You think.”
G. snorted. “What my boys do is foreign to me,”
“Got to give them some freedom,” said Macone.
Pone didn’t expect a sensible conversation, he knew there was still some bad feelings between
the two ancients and the Brigands. They both got humbled by J. Paul and now that he was dead, they
still had to pay homage to his children, mainly the twins, mainly Linda who was a true bitch. A
ruthless, cold hearten miniature female version of her father. They couldn’t touch J. Paul’s kids,
but Pone knew they could get some satisfaction if they could clip him.
Pone gave a stern look. “You’re both old,”
Macone straightened in his chair. “I got eyes. My mirror tells me no lies.”
“You trying to make a point by insulting us?” said G.
Pone pursed his lips. “If you don’t know what your boys are doing then that’s not good.”
Pone leaned on the table. “Look if you want me to keep putting your guys down then fine, but
there comes a time when enough is enough. Revenge is not good or should be a part of what
we do.”
There was a long uncomfortable silence in the room. Pone wasn’t getting through to
the ancients, they were really set in their ways still holding a grudge against the late J.
Paul and now his offspring because they were under their thumb. The gambler in Pone
knew it was time to lay a card on the table.
“When the job is done and I plan to wrap things up, I can drop all of this in the lap
of the police and let this go through the channels of the justice system.” Pone turned over his
glass and poured himself a shot. He threw the rot-gut down his throat. “You both know the
courts don’t guarantee justice or satisfaction and I’m sure old school gangsters such as your-
selves would prefer cement shoes and shit.”
“What do you propose young blood? Asked G.
“No more trying to get a rep by offing me or I’ll rage a private war on the fools that do. What
I did for J. Paul was business. You both know it’s a credo we live and die by. There is no payback
because that kind of thinking gets you and others killed.”
Macone rubbed his chin. “We do this … “
“I’ll deliver the fools who did this to your children, and you can have your gangster style
justice.”
Macone nodded. “I’ll talk to my boys.”
“Ditto,” said G.
Pone rose from the table. He looked at G. “You still got that pig farm in Sumter, South
Carolina?”
G. looked at Pone wondering how the hell he knew about that, but then they’re in the
business of knowing. “You want a Christmas Ham?”
“Not what you be feeding those damn hogs, but you know what they say, always be weary of
a gangster who owns a pig farm.”
