The Price of Business

This is Fiction

King Willy was aware of the Madici clan.

They had been a minor player in the street drug market since before he took over distribution. He used to sell to them. His attention was drawn when they had attempted to re-sell his product at an inflated price. There was no show cause, Willy let them know (and others) that this was a no go zone. Someone died, Willy forgot who. A low level player - the price of business. He had never perceived them as a threat. He had never perceived anyone as a threat. He had operated on the streets of Lincoln City for the last twenty years, cutting his teeth terrorizing those who stood in his way. Back then, he had been called "Willy." Now, they called him King.

He had killed and maimed many to build and maintain the operation that was still in place. Now, the streets were quiet. Money rolled in, and he had legitimized his profits through trust accounts and real estate. He had swapped his FUBU jersey for a two-piece suit and a pocket square a long time ago.

He sat in his midtown office on the tenth floor, where they had blended the real estate business with a recording studio for emerging artists as a front.

He had gone mainstream. Legit.

His name hadn’t been uttered in a criminal setting since before his children were born.

Now, the Madici clan was working with the cops to take down his empire. He was being dragged back to his old ways.

"They’re on every corner with a police escort," said the kid standing opposite Willy’s oak desk.

"How long has this been going on?" Willy asked.

"Two weeks."

Willy stood. He clenched a fist and pounded the table, his diamond ring leaving an imprint in the wood.

"Find me a corner we no longer control and tell me if anyone from the Madici’s is sitting on it," the king demanded.

The kid walked off, pulling a cellphone from his pocket.

King Willy turned to face the cityscape that lined the windows of his office. He leaned back in his chair. He reminisced.

There had been a corner in the projects run by a thug named Christian. He was also a pimp. He held the tower block hostage, controlling both the drug trade and prostitution. The entire building answered to him—even the little old ladies who lived on the first and second floors, who had applied for exemptions to avoid climbing the dilapidated fire stairs whenever the elevators broke down, which happened twice a week.

One day, Christian pulled a blade on Willy’s mother as she returned from the supermarket, demanding a portion of her groceries and telling her she was to do this every time she shopped. It got to the point where she no longer waited for the blade’s tip to reach her neck—she simply set aside a sum of her income for Christian’s food order, leaving it at the foot of his apartment door.

Willy found out when he was sixteen and decided to end the arrangement.

He began speaking with others in the area who had suffered under Christian—children who had lost fathers and mothers, either through murder or incarceration, working at Christian’s behest. Discarded girls and boys who had suffered at his hands. Day by day, hour by hour, person by person—Willy formed an alliance.

The search for sympathetic ears was not just limited to the youth of the complex. Christian and his minions had made life unbearable for those returning to civil society after being locked up for crimes and completing their sentences. Christian made them perform his duties as a taxation by force for fear they would be dobbed into their parole officers. Some of them fought back against the arrangement, and the residents of Peachy Towers would usually find them at the bottom of the communal staircases, having 'accidentally' lost their footing on the return to their apartments in the dark hours of the morning.

The death toll was staggering, and the lack of witnesses was suspicious. The police gave up investigating after seventy deaths went unwitnessed in the common areas. The police never came to investigate disturbances, allowing his reign of terror to continue.

Christian had a monopoly on the projects and had expanded his empire to include two more housing estates.

Willy didn’t care much for business acumen. He wasn’t aware of the level of financial dependence Christian’s followers had on his criminal enterprise. All he knew was that his mother was a victim and—by default—so was he.

It was a cold winter morning, 3 a.m. The attack had been meticulously planned. Fifty-three bodies hid in the shadows, ten to a section, spread across five courtyards in the projects. They waited until the time came to storm Christian’s apartment.

Willy feared that the attack would be thwarted. Many who had gathered could not remain silent enough to complete the raid as planned—that being undetected. Some would smoke in the shadows, the glow of their cigarettes threatening to expose their position. Maybe he was overreacting.

Despite spending time with these people, listening to them, making their acquaintance—these were many and difficult people to deal with. Willy didn't know them intimately and could not know if he could trust them all. If anything were to go wrong, if any suspicion arose in the nervous wait between three and dawn—it would signal a traitor among their ranks. That would mean a death sentence for Willy.

Thankfully, the hatred of the army Willy had amassed surpassed the need for fear that any of them would betray his cause to remove Christian's grip on the projects.

The signal was given at five minutes past the hour. Christian had returned home for a soirée.

Twenty-five went to kick down his door. Ten gathered around back to cover the windows and catch anyone trying to escape. There were two windows, leaving another twenty men and women to surround the building and prevent any allies from coming to his aid.

Willy watched from the tagged fountain that hadn’t run since his childhood. He heard the screams from the building’s second floor. No gunshots—that was a good sign. The deed took all of five minutes, and there was no mistaking when it was over. As per instructions, the fifty or so soldiers scattered in all directions the moment the job was done.

The building was empty, like a roadside carcass.

Willy returned to his shared bedroom, where his little brother slept on the bottom bunk. He smiled at the ceiling, thinking about the money his mother would no longer have to spend on the crook who no longer ruled the towers.

The reign of Christian had ended. The reign of Willy had begun.

King Willy stood from his chair as the kid re-entered the office.

"Wiltshire and Castle. One of our biggest corners," the kid said. "You’ve got two undercover cops in Bentleys watching four suppliers from the Madici clan. They’ve held the block for fourteen days. Stix says we’ve lost about two hundred K in profits."

King Willy cracked his knuckles.

"I want fifty to a hundred bodies," he said. "All armed. Nothing less than a semi-auto per person. I want them to surround the Madici’s and the cops."

The kid hesitated. "And do what?"

"Just stand there for now," Willy said. "I want to see what happens. Go!—make it happen."

The kid ran off, dialing frantically into his phone.