Come Shop With Me

Oscar Alcazar was starting to get on Marcus Manuel's nerves. The Washington Heights projects were his territory, and he was damned if Alcazar was going to take it from him. The brick through his window, the near car accident... Manuel was confident that one of those should have been enough to let Alcazar know who was boss around here, but every night Manuel still saw the "Open" sign flip to "Special: New York Strip" and his blood boiled. Drastic measures were in order: Alcazar had to be put in his place.

The next morning, a cocky little boy of 10 knocked on the door of Oscar's Meat with a note in his hand. Oscar answered the door and was immediately suspicious. It was nine o'clock and he knew that boys this age liked to sleep in on weekends. The young man handed him the note, and without a word went on his way. Oscar opened the crumpled sheet of paper and read: "You're too close. Get your nose out of places it does not belong." He gasped as a finger fell out of the note. He now knew how serious Manuel was about the territory. But he had an idea how to settle the problem.

Manuel was in the shower as he heard a knock on the door of Apartment 215. Irritated that some junkie would have the nerve to come to his door begging for another day to get the money, Manuel slowly got out of the shower, dressed, and came to the door as the knocking persisted. He opened the door and was immediately tackled to the ground by a huge man. Somehow, even after all of the times spent running from the Colombian police, or getting out of the house just as a rival drug lord was about to shoot up the place, this was the first time he ever felt a real sense of fear. The huge man had a gun and was shouting in a familiar Spanish dialect, the dialect of his home country of Colombia. Manuel was thrown against the wall of his shoddy apartment, and his Gucci shades flew into the next room. "Don't try to intimidate me with your crap!" the huge man roared into his ear. "You wanna mess with me I got folks back home that'll mess you up!" Manuel, over his initial shock, realized the man was Alcazar. "Wait, wait!" Manuel pleaded as Alcazar pushed the barrel of the gun against the side of his head. "I'm sorry about the letter, but I know what can be done to benefit both of us. Instead of fighting... we need to combine out resources and create an unstoppable force." "Why should I believe you?" replied a quickly subdued Alcazar. "Because," Manuel responded, "I know of a way the two of us can get rich quick. Plus what reason do I have to get rid of you... if you can make me money. What do you say?" Manuel rose, no longer in fear of the nearly 400 pound man with a gun before him. and extended his arm. "Ok," said Alcazar, "but I swear to God if you screw me, you'll be dead before you even know it." "Oh, I would never even think of it." Alcazar left the apartment and Manuel brushed off his dirty clothes. "That idiot. He has no idea what he's getting himself into. I'll have my money and he'll be dead within the week."

Manuel smiled. The next few days were going to be a lot of fun.

Marcus Manuel: Apt. 215

The average income of a tenant of the Washington Heights project was less than $5500 a year. 50% of the residents had been incarcerated and more than likely the other 50% would be in jail soon. No kids had ever gotten out and made something of themselves, you know, like gone to college or something. Marcus Manuel got out of what was by far the nicest car in the parking lot, a Cadillac Escalade, and smiled. Usually he didn't like having to deal with what he called "delinquent customers," but this time he knew the man wouldn't be bothering him anymore. Plus he was a Dominican, who he really shouldn't have been dealing with anyways. "Whatever," he mused to himself, "moving on." He thought about his native Bogota and for a moment paused, missing the nice, warm beaches and the hordes of prostitutes and hitmen he had at his disposal. Quickly his thoughts snapped back to real life. If Marcus Manuel had to be summed up in one word, that word would be realist, and he thought to himself that Baltimore wasn't really that bad a place after all. Hey, it was a hell of a lot safer here than in Colombia, where every moment he feared a governement official busting through his door, or a rival drug lord setting off a car bomb. Here the most he had to worry about was whether the junkie would have his money, or if some mom got angry that he had killed their kid with his smack. "It's not my fault that kid OD'd on the stuff, I told him that shit was strong," he told the screaming and crying woman ready to rip his throat out. He tossed a few twenties at her feet, maybe five or six, told her to get a nice dress or something, and went along his way. A day in the life... but that life was about to get a lot more interesting in the coming weeks.