Page 8 of The Millionaire Mortician
Being the person I was, I had connections with a lot of hospital morgue workers. I would always get them to sign over the unclaimed bodies to my funeral home. Using my brain, I developed a special program for unclaimed bodies, offering free funerals and cremations. Unbeknownst to anyone, the bodies were used as our safe house, where we kept our drugs safe and secure.
“Alexa, play ‘Great Gatsby’ by Rod Wave,” I requested.
The song immediately blared through the surround sound system I had installed. I positioned my guy under the light, right where he belonged, then I began to prep myself by putting on latex gloves, my apron, and a mask. The proper tools were already lined up on my tray next to the metal table.
I quickly undressed him enough to reach where I needed to. Once his abdomen was exposed, I grabbed the scalpel and traced along the sutures until they were all undone. The flesh opened easily and neatly, like the body knew its purpose wasn’t finished just yet.
Spreading the skin and flesh aside, I pulled out three perfectly plastic-wrapped bricks from his stomach. The product still smelled strong through the layers, letting me know they were pure and still fresh. Wiping them off, I set them down inside a duffel bag, then proceeded to stitch him back up and redress him. Giving him a once-over, I smoothed his jacket to make sure he looked good and not out of place. I was told I treated the dead better than the living sometimes.
As I was placing him back into the drawer, my trap phone rang. I looked and saw it was Dave calling. Instead of answering, I called him back on the secure line I had in the home.
“Who this?” he answered arrogantly.
I took a deep breath in and let it out. “Come by the garage,” I simply instructed.
“Oh, this Milan. Aight, I’m coming,” he stated, all hyper.
If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve assumed the muthafucker was working for the law the way he just name-dropped on the phone.
I brushed it off and looked at the camera before opening the gate for him. Once I saw that he was inside, I closed the gate shut and went to meet him by the door.
“Big homie,” Dave exclaimed as he approached me.
I gave him a quick dap and then led the way inside.
“I can’t believe you really like fuckin’ wit’ dead people and shit. Niggas like you muthafuckers gotta be scared of,” he stated.
You’re right about one thing, I thought to myself and chuckled.
Without saying a word, I lifted the bag onto the table, unzipped it halfway to show him the contents. “It’s three in there. That’s for your team. Make shit happen,” I ordered.
His eyes lit up as he nodded with a smirk. “So this is where the work’s at?” he asked, looking around.
“Nah, nigga. I just happened to bring this shit here today when I got called in for an emergency,” I threw him off.
There was no way in hell I was giving that vital information. I would’ve then had to worry about opps pulling up or the law bussing down my doors. I just needed him to feel we trusted him a little more.
“You good with this?” I questioned.
I gave him more than usual, so I wanted to confirm he could handle it. Besides the quantity, I never handed Dave shit in his hands. Dodge or Tave would do the drops.
“Yeah. I can move ‘em easy. I got the trap on Gates hungry as hell right now.” He grinned, licking his lips. “Ain’t nobody putting in work like me, big homie. Maverick sees it too.”
I leaned back against the cold wall with my arms crossed, studying him. He didn’t know I had already heard about the skimming and about him planting seeds with some of the young niggas about trying to take over my shit. He thought he was slick, but the streets didn’t hide betrayal for long. Maverick always said I was too patient. Maybe he was right, but patience was the only thing that made a man dangerous, and that I was.
“Hold it down, then,” I told him.
Dave smirked as he grabbed the bag of bricks in his hand. Without saying another word, he turned to leave with a confident strut. As I eyed him closely, his demeanor told meeverything. Dave thought that night was the first step to a seat at our table, but little did he know it was actually a dead end with no exit for him.
I looked at the camera as he drove out of the garage. I quickly shut the gate behind him.
As I was getting ready to leave, my business phone rang.
“Steven,” I answered.
“Marcano, what’s good? I need a favor,” he spoke urgently.
Steven was a funeral director and an associate of mine. We usually did favors for each other in the funeral industry. There were times my home was filled with no place to put a body and vice versa, so we’d store bodies for each other, amongst other favors.
