Urban Cocktails

By D. A. Webb

D. A. Webb, the boldest new voice in the urban/street fiction genre, takes you on a “G” ride through the greedy streets of Houston, Texas, with Lonny Akbar (aka L. A.) who’s a former trap king and drug trafficker.

Since he was released from federal prison, after pulling a ten-year bid, L. A. has a successful custom leather business with his wife, Olivia. He’s worked hard for five years building the business, then he finds himself thrust into the middle of a conspiracy being drawn up against him by the man who ratted him out and Special Agent Richard “D***head” Howard of the Drug Enforcement Administration, who is out to completely destroy Lonny this time. Just when things look bleak, it gets even worse when the words, “I know who threw that knife” are uttered. Lonny now has to make it through the intense situation. He also has to protect the woman he loves more than life itself; Olivia. It won’t be easy.

Tune in to find out how Lonny protects his wife and his interest from the connivance of these two men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662433399

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Urban Cocktails

D. A. Webb

Copyright © 2021 D. A. Webb

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-3338-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-3339-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

To Ola Marie Chenevert

You were the inspiration for this story

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I would like to give thanks to the Almighty God, the Most High, the Most Merciful. I give thanks to Him because without Him, I wouldn’t have had the intellect or patience to complete this manuscript.

Next in line is Mama, Joellen Perkins. Mama, you have supported me in all my good times and all the bad times. I know there was like a million times you wanted to turn me loose and let me deal with my bad decisions on my own. Thanks for hanging in there with me, Mama. I also want to say thank you for asking if I have been writing. There were times that I hadn’t been, but after talking to you, I got right on it. Now look, your oldest child has finally finished something he started.

Marceline Renee Webb, a million thanks to you, little sis. Without your help, I would still be looking for the right path to take to get this book into print. Thanks for all the internet browsing you did for me and thanks for all the sheets of information you printed out for me. I know I acted like a pest at times, wasting valuable phone time, just to ask if you’d mail me this or that.

Lacendra Abrunette Webb, thanks to you also, little sis. You really came through in a big way when you secured the copyright for this story. I knew you would after you read it.

I have to shout out to my bruh , Oscar Nelson. Thanks for the memories, man. We had some fun back in the day, huh? Also, thanks for allowing me to let the readers take a peek into our friendship.

Mark Anthony Jordan, hands down you’re the best bestie a brotha would want on his team. Say, man, thanks for always being there for your boy. And also thanks for letting me tell a little bit of your story.

To all my children—Geraline Lincoln, Treyvian Webb, Khalil Webb, and the apple of my eye, Lacendra Jonae Webb—thanks for believing in me when I told y’all of my plan to write a book. Khalil, thanks for offering to buy your old man that typewriter. Believe it or not, I managed without one. Treyvian, thanks for going out of your way to inquire about the cover artwork. I love y’all so much.

It wouldn’t be right if I forgot to mention all of you dudes on the McConnell Unit in Beeville, Texas, who read Urban Cocktails. I want to thank y’all for all the honest opinions and positive feedback that was given. Gilbert Zeno (a.k.a. G. Zoom), Bobby Perez (a.k.a. Mr. B), Marcus Smith (a.k.a. Buster), Rodney Wayne King (a.k.a. Flint), Willie Flowers (a.k.a. Dusty), Chris Hooper (a.k.a. YC), Korbin Watts (a.k.a. Hollywood or MAWB), Willie Bubba Davis, Robert ATX Lemueli, Gary Li’l G McClanahan, David Li’l Klack Clack, Herbert Herb Nash, Lucky G, Tony Polo Williams, and Jonathon the Dweeb Larkin. All of your feedback, guys, influenced me to pursue my dream of becoming an author.

There’s one dude left, Patrick Bulldog Hoza. I can’t thank you enough for mentoring me through this whole process of writing a novel. We had our days of going back and forth over some of the grammar , I was using, but we managed. We did it, huh? Thanks, man!

It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t thank the Princess for the help she gave me. You too, Ms. Thang. I can’t forget about the Freestyle Queen. Man, when I think about it, y’all really got out there for me. Wow!

Chapter 1

Today is May 1, and I awoke this morning feeling like new money. I got out of bed and went straight to the bathroom to take a whizz, brush my grill, and then wash my face. I don’t know why, but it’s always in that order. After that, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen to make myself an extra-large cup of instant coffee. It is the only thing that can get my motor running this time of day. Grabbing my favorite cup from the cabinet, I filled it with water from the tap, and away it went into the microwave. In a couple of minutes, I’d be able to start catching my focus.

As I waited for the microwave to stop, a thought ran through my mind. Where the hell is Olivia? I walked over to the window to see if her Benz was parked in the driveway behind the house. It was gone. It was not like Liv to be gone from home this early without telling me the night before. And now that I thought about it, she had been acting rather strange lately. I had noticed over the past couple of days she’d received phone calls that were too private to talk in front of me. Then there was the ripping and running she’d been doing.

Beep, beep, beep. Well, my water was hot so I removed my coffee mug from the microwave and added two heaping spoonfuls of good ol’ Colombian coffee. Before I would take a sip, I heard my phone ringing.

Shit, I left it upstairs, I remembered and ran upstairs to the master bedroom. When I finally got there, I saw my mama’s number on the screen.

Hello, I answered.

Happy birthday, Lonny.

Thank you, Mama, I answered with a smile.

Boy, you gettin’ old now, aren’t you?

I feel old too, Mama.

How old are you now, son? she asked.

Mama, how you gonna ask a question like that? And you are the one who gave birth to me! I knew what she was trying to do; she just wanted me to say out loud how old I was. And in the long run, I always ended up bowing down to Mama’s persistence.

I’m forty-five years old, Mama. She started laughing in that goofy but loving tone that’s been a joy to hear all my life. To me, a laughing mama is a happy mama. Then she went into the speech that she’d been giving me since I turned eighteen years old.

My firstborn child, you were the prettiest little boy I’d ever seen. You were a good child all the way through high school, then I don’t know what happened. You went against everything I tried to teach you—

Mama, I whined, as I interrupted her speech, but Mama picked up right where she left off.

"But my baby boy had to learn on his own. And no matter what bump in the road you hit, I was there for you."

And I thank you very much for loving me and being there when I needed you. The Most High chose the perfect woman to be my mama, and I’ll always be grateful to you and him. Mama, you got me in tears now. I ain’t s’posed to be cryin’ on my birthday.

What do you have planned for today? she asked.

I don’t know, Mama. I am hoping I will be spending my special day with my wife, but I don’t seem to know where she is right now.

Have you tried calling her?

Well, no, but I was thinking about it, but then you called.

Okay then, I’ll talk to you later. Tell Olivia I said hello.

I will. I love you, Mama.

I love you too, Lonny, she said as she ended the call.

With my cup of coffee in hand, I made my way back downstairs and went into the living room to turn on the television. I grabbed the remote and began looking for something to watch on the eighty-four-inch Samsung TV, mounted above the fireplace. I checked the local news stations for anything interesting. As I expected, the top stories were the usual murder, robbery, and drunk driving arrests. It seemed to never change. I quickly grew tired of the eyewitness news footage then flipped the channel to ESPN to watch last nights’ basketball highlights. Just as the television adjusted itself, they were showing the highlights of the Cleveland Cavaliers and Houston Rockets game. I would have watched it, but Liv wanted to cuddle and watch a Tyler Perry movie we had already seen like a million times.

Yeah! I mumbled excitedly. The Rockets beat Lebron James and the Cavs by three points. My boy James Harden had launched a buzzer beater from beyond half-court for the win and had outscored Lebron 41–35. Satisfied with the outcome of the game, I turned off the television and said, Fuck this, I need to find something to do. Better yet, I’ma call Liv right now and find out where the hell she’s at. I went back upstairs to our bedroom to put on some clothes—nothing special, just a pair of black basketball shorts, an all-white T-shirt, white ankle socks, and a fresh pair of all-white King James Nikes. After tying my laces, I grabbed my cell phone and descended the stairs once more and made my way outside to the garage. Once outside, I pushed the button on the automatic garage door opener. As the door slowly opened, rays of the morning sun reflected off my most prized possession.

My 1977 Pontiac Le Mans was a sight to see. I had it totally restored with modifications here and there and everywhere. There is air ride suspension underneath, and I had put twenty-inch Foose rims on the front and twenty-two inchers on the back. Under the hood, I installed a Pontiac 400 big block with all the trimmings—cam, headers, and a high-rise intake. The engine easily packed 750 horsepower, and it was painted the candiest blue you’d ever seen. It was a very beautiful blast from the past. I hardly ever drove it. It’d been sitting in the garage collecting dust. I just might pull it out today since it’s my birthday. Just maybe it will make me feel sixteen years old again, and I can relive some of those memories. But first, let me call my wife.

Hello, she answered in a sassy way.

Baby, where are you?

Why? she asked.

Damn, where all the attitude comin’ from?

L. A., why you callin’ me asking all these questions?

Why didn’t I get breakfast in bed this mornin’? You fa’got what today is?

No, L. A., I haven’t forgotten what today is. Happy birthday, L. A. Is that what you wanted to hear? You talkin’ ’bout breakfast in bed? You better make a bowl of those Tony the Tigers you like so much!

Got damn! I jus’ thought you woulda done the things you done last year.

Nah, I don’t have anything like that on the agenda for this year. And since you are tryin’ to anticipate things, all I have planned is taking you out to dinner.

When you comin’ home? I asked.

L. A., I’ma grown-ass woman. I know what street my house is on, and as long as I come home, that’s all you need to worry about, she argued.

Liv, what the hell is wrong wit’chu’? It seems to me you on some real live trip shit this mornin’, I said, as I was starting to get pissed. Then out of nowhere, she shouted into the phone.

"You don’t tell me!" Then the phone went dead. At least, I knew she was not mad at me because she always says those four words when she’s tired of going around in circles with one of our skirmishes.

I started the Pontiac and backed it out of the garage to let the engine idle so all the fluids could start building to the proper temperatures. While Ol’ Blue was sitting there purring like a lion cub, I opened the trunk to get the dust cloth to wipe away dust particles that had collected on the paint. As I wiped the dust away, I listened to the engine, hoping I wouldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. I also looked under the car to see if any fluids were leaking. With everything in working order, I was ready for the slab now, but I got to get my music right first. So I synchronized the Bluetooth on my phone with the Alpine receiver so it could play my music library through the sound system in the Le Mans. I hated listening to regular radio stations because it is so bland nowadays. I gotta have my music raw and uncut and without all those damn commercials. My music preference is the gangsta rap from the late ’80s and ’90s; the nostalgia it gives me is unbelievable. I could relive those days in my mind as the bass thumps through the four 15-inch Rockford Fosgate woofers in the trunk while the Alpine receiver delivers the clearest clarity to the six-by-nine-inch JBL speakers in the rear deck.

Before I rolled out, I made sure all the doors to the crib were locked, and I pressed the button on the garage door opener to let the door down. Sitting behind the woodgrain steering wheel now, I searched through my music library for something to jam. I settled on one of my favorite artists, the original O. G. himself—Ice-T. One push of a button and 6 in the Mornin’ began to play as I was rolling out of my driveway:

6 in the mornin’, police at my door/Fresh Adidas squeak across the bathroom floor…

Nostalgia kicked in right away. When this song came out, I was young, dumb, and always looking for some kind of way to come up. It was hard for me to resist cranking the volume up on this classic while I was driving out of my neighborhood. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself; the rumble of the exhaust pipes and the blue sparkles from the paint were an attention getter all its own. Sometimes, I wondered why Olivia wanted to live out here in the Woodlands. When I was young, my mama used to bring me and my sisters to this suburb to view the big Christmas light extravaganzas. Every house out here at the time seemed like mansions, and they were all bedazzled with Christmas lights. After almost five years, it was still hard for me to believe that I live in one of these more-than-moderate homes. It reminded me of the old sitcom The Jeffersons, and Liv and I were moving on up.

I finally maneuvered Ol’ Blue through my neighborhood and onto Woodlands Drive, which would take me to Interstate 45. A red light brought me to a stop. Then one of those new Dodge Chargers, with the Hemi under the hood, pulled up in the next lane to me and started revving up his engine. Oh, this punk thinks he can outrun Ol’ Blue, I said to myself. When the light turned green, I let the Charger take off first, then I mashed the gas on his ass and let Ol’ Blue do his thing. When I passed the Charger, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw that the driver flashed me a thumbs-up sign out his window. To me, that meant he had accepted his ass whupping.

Shortly after the brief race, I made it to the feeder road and made a right-hand turn, as I headed south to my old stomping grounds—44 Acres Homes. I hopped on the expressway, taking another opportunity to haul ass. I merged left into the fast lane where nothing was standing in the way of pushing the Pontiac. While maintaining a steady speed of 85 miles per hour, I checked the rearview to see if there were any cops coming up behind me. I didn’t see any, so I put a little more foot into the gas pedal. Ol’ Blue was roaring down the interstate at 106 miles per hour now, and I could feel the horses under the hood begin to wake up. Hustler by Ice-T begins banging through the sound system, so I cranked up the volume just as the rhyme went:

What’s up? You say you wanna be down?

Ease back or mutha fucka get beat down

Out my face, fool I’m the illest

Bulletproof, I die harder than Bruce Willis

As I looked up into the rearview mirror, I was surprised to see a black Chevy Tahoe on my ass. As far as I could tell, the Tahoe was most definitely some kind of law enforcement vehicle. A factory Tahoe wouldn’t be able to keep up with me like this. I eased up on the gas pedal a little, dropping down to between seventy and seventy-five. I was still glancing up into the mirror though, watching and waiting to see what this mutha fucka was gonna do. I was still about ten miles away from the hood, so I reached for my cell phone. I had to give a call to Liv and let her know that I might be in trouble. Just as I made the call, the flashing lights in the grill of the Tahoe were letting me know what time it was. Liv answered her phone on the second ring.

Hello.

Baby, listen to me, the popos are pullin’ me over—

Before I could finish, Liv said, I see you, babe. I’m turning around now. I’m on my way!

I’ma exit the freeway at Greens Road and pull into the Target parking lot.

I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t do anything stupid.

I won’t, I assured Liv and ended the call.

When I made the exit, the Tahoe was on my ass like stink on shit, so I slowly turned into the parking lot and came to a complete stop. The Tahoe pulled in behind me, but the police never got out of the truck. Sensing the hesitation, I activated the eight hidden cameras and microphones I had installed in Ol’ Blue for situations such as this. When activated, all recordings are downloaded to the hard drive of the Dell desktop computer at home.