Page 56 of Ride or Die
Franky and I have worked together many times, pulling jobs for Williams when he was short-handed. We get along, but he is a crazy fuck. We have definitely done some wild shit together.
I just hope to fuck he didn’t know Layla was my girl when he sent that junkie after her. Otherwise, that’s a direct shot at me that will be dealt with.
I’m infuriated because that would have never happened if I hadn’t been working for Williams today. I had a feeling she wouldn’t use the money to take the cab. All day, it ate me alive that I couldn’t be there. She never would have had to find her way home and walk through that goddamn park.
Was it a setup? Did Franky somehow persuade Williams to get me to move the drugs today so he could get Layla alone? Or was that pure coincidence?
I need answers.
I kiss her forehead, leaving a note on the bedside table before I head out.
The ten-minute walk to Franky’s a few streets over takes me five. His place is the nicest-looking house in the entire suburb, but even it is a shithole. The things this fuck does for money is disgusting. He’s into everything, his hand in every single cookie jar to be had here. But his main gigs are drug dealing, his strip club, and being a pimp to several high-end escorts. The kind of women that the city’s politicians and elite call on to get their rocks off.
I approach the house, and as always, the party is bumping in the garage and driveway. Seven days a week, this guy’s got something going on. His security guard notices me walking up, and nods at me as I enter.
Walking into the garage, I’m partially blinded by the strobe lights, a group of people dancing and laughing beneath them. Beer bottles, full ashtrays, and garbage are strewn about the place. I walk past a guy doing coke off a hooker’s chest on anold van bench seat and two chicks making out while they dance together. This is the type of party you walk out of feeling like you need a shower.
I head toward the living room, or Franky’s “office”, as he likes to call it. This is where the deals go down—money, drugs, and women are traded here. I’ve even heard rumors this is where he fucks the new talent to see if they are worth his time. A job interview, if you will.
I pass through the stupid beaded curtain and there he is, the man himself, the pimp wearing a blue velour tracksuit. Jesus, he’s an ugly fucker. Skinny with tattoos everywhere, wild white blonde hair, and terrible teeth, which he often covers with a gold grill. The total stereotypical shady, drug-using pimp.
“Hawthorne, my man!” he says happily, opening his arms in welcome. My jaw clenches, and I feel the vein in my neck pulse. His nonchalance only infuriates me more. And he can tell, because his face drops as I storm towards him.
I grab his shirt and the back of his neck and smash him face-first against the wall. Franky couldn’t take me if he tried. He’s a skinny cokehead. I wedge my elbow across his face against the wall, holding him there. “Tha fuck man?!”
I pull him off the wall and slam him back into it, making him grunt.
“Why the fuck did you send Bruce after Layla?” I shout angrily.
“Who?” I pull him back and slam him into the wall again, this time denting the drywall.
“Layla fucking White!” I bellow, and the sick fuck chuckles, so I smash him into the wall again, making him groan.
"Oh. That girl? Yeah, she fucked with someone that works for me. She needed to be taught a lesson for her bullshit.” I press harder against him, and he yelps in pain.
“She’s my girl, Franky! You paid Bruce to put his dirty fucking hands on my girl!” I roar. Franky’s goons come in ready to kick the shit out of me, but he waves them off. He knows we will settle this between us.
“How the fuck would you feel if I assaulted one of your girls, huh?” I shout in his face. “You’d have me fucking killed, Franky! You’re lucky I have some respect for you, or I’d fucking kill you right now! Now tell me, who asked you to do this?” I scream. He puts his one free hand up in defense.
“Honestly, a misunderstanding, Hawthorne. I had no clue she was your girl. It won’t happen again. But I won’t give up who asked me to do it. That’s not how I do business, you know that. Just keep yourselves in your own fucking lane,” he spits out.
I press my elbow harder into his face. “C’mon man, I’m sorry!”
“If anyone comes near Layla again, I’ll fucking kill you, Franky. You know what I’m capable of. You know how it works here,” I growl, releasing him off the wall.
He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and rubs his bloody face, then returns to his normal cheery self.
“Oh, Hawthorne, I’ve always liked ya, man. Of course I know what you're capable of. That night in Milwaukee was fucking nuts!" He laughs, but his smile drops when he sees the look on my face at the mention of Milwaukee, the night we were to never speak of again.
"I’ll make sure no one fucks with your girl going forward, at least by my hands. I'll also let you know if I hear anyone else is trying to fuck with her, okay? We good? She good?”
I continue to scowl at him. “Bruce is lying in the park with his face dented in, but she’s traumatized, man. No, we’re not good! He had a knife to her throat. That fuck was about to rape her! Tell me, Franky, who asked you to do this?”
My eyes narrow as I move towards him again, and he puts his hands up in surrender. I love how intimidated he is by me.
“Hey, I paid him to rough her up, not rape her. I respect pussy way too much to pull that. You know what I do to the guys that try that shit with my girls,” he defends himself, subconsciously leaning away from me.
“But, I’m sorry, bro, I can’t tell you who asked me to. What else can I do, man? You name it.”
