Moneye MEETS MOODY

--an excerpt from NO WORDS for the DEAD

The acid in my stomach churned. There are medicines that smell like shit, go down rough, and later you feel tidy. I had to take my medicine. I added Moody to my fight card. Moody, the criminal criminals feared. 

I knew him in high school. A small-time hustler of stolen cigarettes and boosted goods. He went from a scrambler to a boss, building a crew of professional thieves into sophisticated smugglers, who preferred murder over lost cargo. His crew supplied for multiple factions, including the Italians, Chinese and Russians. He lived in Jersey, but ran his operation from Uptown, where he owned a legit pool hall called Phat Pockets. I parked in front. It didn’t matter. Moody’s goons clocked the ribbon grille of the M3 when I turned onto 1’s and 2’s.

Moody and I had long been adversarial acquaintances. He’s an old sparring partner, and the one rooster I couldn’t keep in a pen. I whooped his ass in the ring, and his lawyers bodied me in the courtroom. Born slippery like an electric eel, his actions could often be shocking, if not terminal. He was a snide arrogant prick with a shit load of gas on the streets.

Moody did shit backwards, using respect to instill fear. He did favors in return for compliance. Granting favors gained him utmost respect, but the return on his investment could be deadly. Most know what Moody is and what he does, but no one ever mentioned who he was or what he’d done.

I adjusted my glasses and unclipped my gun as I strolled up to Phat Pockets. A couple of guys leered at an OTB racing book. Their gear indicated too much money lost at the track and not enough time on the grind.

“Look at this nigga,” one of them laughed, nudging his buddy with an elbow. “What the fuck you doin’ here?”

“This bitch must want that heat, yo,” the second guy laughed, eyeing me up and down.

The taller of the two had a glass eye, and kept poking at it. I recognized these motherfuckers, but I didn’t know their names. They were in the courtroom the last time I tried to lock Moody under the prison. I’m sure they remembered.

Ignoring them both, I attempted to pass them when the tall dude stuck his arm out inches from my chest.

“Don’t even think about it. Moody ain’t got no time for you.”

I glanced downward, sighed, then drove an uppercut through his chin. His head snapped up and bounced off the wired glass of the front door. He lost muscle control before he hit the sidewalk. I drew my gun, and pointed it at the other dude.

“Whatever you say, say it now, ’cause it’ll be hard to talk after I blast you in the face.”

He held his hands up and remained still, standing over his dazed companion. I walked by, lowered my gun, but kept it ready.

As I entered, the smell of blunt smoke and liquor clogged my nose. At the center of the room, pool tables were surrounded by sofas and bar tables with leather-padded wooden stools. Purple neon lights lined the perimeters of the ceiling, illuminating the lavender felt pool tables.

The bartender, a stout man, hefting a fat belly, had cornrows, a thick mustache and beads of sweat dimpling his forehead as he moved through beams of display lights of the front bar. He wore a black t-shirt with the Phat Pockets logo splashed across the front.

I knew where Moody would be. I scanned the room until I saw it. A dude sat on a barstool in front of a black, curtained doorway. I cruised past the front bar toward the curtains. I stopped at stool-boy. I squinted at him. He looked down at my hand, and back to me, then his gaze went past me. I slipped through the curtain, and shoved the USP into the holster.

Inside, a bunch of tricks and dudes congregated at a right-angle bar on the far end. Scattered bar tables lined the walls and a couple of sofas flanked the corners. I heard the low bass of Throwin’ Shade, dripping from the overhead sound system. A single fuchsia pool table glowed in the middle of the room.

Moody prowled the table seeking an angle for his next shot. This was Phat Pockets backroom, where Moody hustled pool and had the balls to fuck up people’s lives.

“Well, Mr. Prosecutor.”

I heard him before I faced him.

“With your genius, seems like you would know where the fuck you at?”

“You know I’m not a prosecutor anymore, so cut the bullshit,” I said, stepping to the pool table.

I lingered.

“Yeah, I heard your monkey-ass got fired. I guess losing all those cases to me got your bosses fed,” he said, making the 6-ball pop into the corner pocket.

I pulled my gun and put the barrel to his forehead.

“I lost my fucking brother.”

Gun slides and chambers racked. All-guns-on-Moneye was in full effect. He moved his eyes up to the barrel of the USP, and then to me.

“What makes you think I feel like hearing anything you have to say?”

“Because you know me, and my little quirk. Knowing, I don’t give a fuck how others feel. And fully aware that I will burn you and this muthafucka down to grey dust. I’m sure you know I’m not a prosecutor anymore.”

He stared at me, then returned to lining up his shot. A smirk formed at the corners of his mouth. He flicked his head, hammers uncocked, and his goons faded back into shadows. I pulled my gun back slowly, in case he changed his mind. They called him Moody. He was known to do that. His government name was Davis Anthony Banfield III.

Even before I stepped through the curtain, I knew I had to lay it out. Back in the day, when we sparred, he’d try to slip in a headshot, saying “You never said no headshots” as if he didn’t know the meaning of “light sparring”. I usually knocked his ass down to remind him. 

“Yeah, that’s right. You a bodyguard for your rap star homeboy now.”

Moody laughed.

“I’m Chief of Security.”

I smiled.

“Keeping people safe. Like you feel right now. Until I open up this bitch like a can opener.”

“Fuck do you want, counselor? I don’t box no more....