Westside Wlmington Chronicles

By Juan Carlos Diaz

Released from prison after serving twenty-two years, former hit man Sammy Ortega is looking to turn his life around by publishing a memoir that describes his life as a hit man in excruciating detail. Upon his release, however, his best friend Ace asks him to assist in robbing the stash houses and businesses that are run by Sammy’s former bosses the Zepedas family,
a Puerto Rican crime syndicate that runs the drug trade out of the state of Delaware. Meanwhile, as Ortega is helping take down his former crew one by one, his memoir is rapidly climbing the New York Times Best Sellers list. However, a shadow from his past will not let Sammy enjoy his success, for it will drag him back to the life he so desperately wants to escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669867210

Book preview

WESTSIDE WLMINGTON

CHRONICLES

Juan Carlos Diaz

Copyright © 2023 by Juan Carlos Diaz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/13/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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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

Part 2

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Little Man

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 1

You being released today, Sammy? The sound of my cellmate’s question bounced off the concrete walls of our jail cell, seeming to ride the wave of optimism that encompassed the atmosphere around us. He knew the answer to that question, but he just liked to hear it spoken because it gave him some form of hope to latch on to. Yup, at nine forty-five this very morning will be the last time my old Puerto Rican ass will see these walls. The words came out of my mouth with renewed optimism, as if being rinsed off by the cleansing release of a giggle.

I stood in the middle of my cell, buttoning up the cuff of the left sleeve of my light-blue dress shirt, trying to hold back the emotions that threatened to break free from the calm facade that I was displaying my cellmate. Shit, I know I had every right to be at least a little emotional at that moment. I had been locked up in this bitch they call Stone Gate Prison since 1995 on some murder rap, but thanks to some strings that my lawyer pulled, I got the charges lowered, allowing me to serve twenty-two years of what was once a life sentence. I don’t know how he did it, but my lawyer Donald Goldman was a fucking genius. Well, I wouldn’t expect anything less from a lawyer who got reputed Italian mobsters and killers off the sights of the RICO Act.

So yeah, I had every right to shed a tear of happiness, but I wasn’t going to do it in front of my cellmate. I was the guy’s hero, for god’s sake. I didn’t want to look like a pussy in front of him. Yo, Reggie, how I look, man? I said, turning toward my cellmate who was laid up on the bottom bunk with his hands supporting the back of his head in a nonchalant, relaxed pose, looking like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.

Reggie turned his head slowly toward the direction I was standing in without removing his hands from the back of his head and started, Man, you look like one of those white boys who are fresh out of college seeking to get a job at one of those social media startups. Shit, with those tight-ass khaki pants and that light-blue dress shirt you have on, who knows what you might do? Reggie said in between giggles that carried with them the essence of a friendly nature, inviting me to keep the joke going.

"Fucking maricon, I said as I waved my hand toward him in a forget you" gesture, which prompted Reggie into a fit of laughter. His thick baritone laughter filled up our cell that somehow seemed to illuminate it, chasing away the dark and drab that always housed within it.

Dude, all jokes aside, I wish you the best of luck out there, you hear? I stood there and listened to him as Reggie mustered every ounce of seriousness into his words. I know what I just said to you came off a bit cliché, but you were given a second chance at life, which doesn’t come too often for many. Reggie was now sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk with his bare feet firmly planted on the concrete floor.

Before continuing to speak, Reggie reached under his bunk without breaking from his sitting position, except for his arm that dragged out an extra-large Save A Lot grocery bag that gleamed in the faint florescent lights throughout the corridor of their cell block.

I already knew what was in the bag, of course. In that grocery bag was my future. The one ticket that would redeem me from my life of crime and establish me as a fully rehabilitated member of society. Within that bag was thirty yellow legal pads worth of my story. The blue lines of every sheet in that legal pad were the veins that my story coursed through, giving birth to an entirely new perspective on my life. Yeah, I had written my autobiography and kept it in that damn shopping bag for seventeen years; and upon my release from this hellhole of a prison, I would try to get it published.

Reggie continued to speak, but this time his voice raised an octave as it began filling with emotion. I read your whole book last week, man. Let’s just say, my nigga, that shit was phenomenal, he stated. His voice quavered emotion as he now held the bag on his lap. He got up from the bed and walked toward me, holding out the bag gently in his hands as though he held a precious gift sent down from the heavens. Now you take this manuscript and make sure that it is sent to the right people, you hear me? And don’t put this masterpiece in the hands of a vanity press, either. Shit, as good as that manuscript is, everyone in the world should be lining up to pay you for your book. Finishing off his last words, Reggie handed me the bag and opened up his trek-riddled arms to embrace me. Those arms a sheer reminder of Reggie’s long-won battle with heroin addiction. I love you, brother. Remember that. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me while you were in here with me.

When I heard that kind of gratitude pour so freely from the man’s heart, the memory of the first time that I met him was triggered as if someone had turned on an old film projector in the theater of my mind. On its big screen, I could see a young and strung-out Reggie whose golden-brown skin was ashy and riddled with open scabs so fresh some of them were a bright crimson. Hey, man, you got a cigarette? Reggie asked as he sat down on the bottom bunk, which, as far as he was concerned, was his spot for as long as he resided in prison.

Nah, I don’t smoke, man, I said to him, trying not to feel sorry him and failing miserably. Although he was young, l couldn’t help but notice that the guy reminded me of my old man. He too was a big-time heroin addict.

Immediately, I recalled the day that Reggie first came to prison. He arrived in a line of newbies back in 2012. It was easy to tell that he was a heroin addict by the way he jittered and shivered his way along with the other newbies. Not to mention that he was incessantly scratching his arms with open track wounds that seemed to resemble the mouths of tortured souls screaming out in agony. The corrections officers who were there that day assigned me to get acclimated to the prison routine, which would spark one of the deepest friendships I have ever had with any man in my life. Many nights, I would hold Reggie in my arms as he withered in pain as symptoms of heroin withdrawal ravaged his body, like a man possessed by demons. During those bouts of withdrawal, I took the time to tell him about my life as a hit man working for a Puerto Rican crime family known as the Zepedas, but the streets called them Los Cucos (Spanish for the bogeymen). Man, the shit I told Reggie could have landed me on death row, but I knew deep in my heart that Reggie wasn’t a snitch. Plus, he knew damn well that if he snitched anything to the COs, there would be at least twenty prisoners on Los Cucos’ payroll who would snuff him out, no questions asked.

Yo, thank you so much for seeing me through my withdrawals, said Reggie, breaking me out of my reveries and bringing me back to the present. Dude, you’ve been a great friend to me. Hell, probably the only friend I ever had in my whole entire life, he said dramatically, tightening the grip on his hug.

All right, all right, faggots, break it up, said a white CO sarcastically. That’s just what this world needs, a spic and a nigger trying to make babies. News flash, shitheads, just ’cause Bruce Jenner gone up and turned hisself into a woman doesn’t mean that every fag now has a uterus. The Southern drawl in the CO’s voice seemed to contaminate the atmosphere with its good ol’ boy bigotry. Let’s go, Ortega. The goddamn system is setting you free. His final comment was drenched and dripping with despise as he turned the key to open my cell.

Walking out of that cell for the last time and knowing deep in my heart that I would never return felt so damn good that I didn’t care if that old peckerwood called me a spic. Shit, the way I saw it, I was the one leaving the clink, but that poor overweight old CO would work here until he retired or dropped dead of a heart attack. You see, the dude had no future. His best years were spent harassing prisoners.

Walking out of my cell a free man, I was ecstatic, but the cause of what put me there for twenty-two years still haunted me. It was as if my past was an evil, tormented ghost that would rear its grotesque head from the darkest depths of my soul, screaming, You will never escape me no matter how hard you try, motherfucker! And at that very moment, it had its cold grip around me, bringing with it memories of that fateful day. At that moment, though, I welcomed the bad memory to take over my thoughts right then and there. Shit, at least it helped to drown out the mindless rant of the CO as he escorted me down my final walk down the corridor of Cell Block F.

Making my way down the corridor, I was on autopilot. My body was moving the way any normal, healthy body would, but my mind wasn’t in the same place as my body. My mind had wandered back to that crisp November night in 1995. I sat in a black Honda Accord, waiting for my assignment to arrive. The car’s heating system was on full blast (I hated the cooler months in Delaware, which made me desire the warmer climate of my beautiful Puerto Rico) as I looked out my car window at the night sky that hung over the streets of Fourth and Lincoln. Hector Lavoe crooned softly from the car’s stereo as I let my mind wander to the objectives of my assignment. I could literally see the bloated face of my boss, Israel Zepedas, as he sat behind his mahogany desk, giving me the lowdown on what the assignment was about. This little shit they called Rico Red was said to have been giving intel to the authorities about our family’s operation throughout the entire eastern shore of the United States, particularly the business we got going down in Miami with the Dominicans and Haitians, and the young boy Rico was supposed to be the representative for the Zepedas family as their distributor of heroin throughout Delaware. In other words, Rico would go down to Miami and pick up an x amount of heroin and bring it up to Delaware via speedboat. It sounds simple enough, right? But no, that stupid little shit put the cops on to the entire operation. So that’s where I came in. I was the custodian cleaning up their mess. Rico Red had to be dealt with like any other snitch: a bullet to the head.

The digital clock on my dashboard read 10:45 p.m. when I saw Rico’s white Benz park behind my Honda from my rearview mirror, the custom gold Mercedes logo glinting a faint orange glow from the streetlights. About fucking time this nigga show up, damn, I said, watching as my target got out of his car. I had to admit I had no love for Rico and would have gladly done his ass in for free. Shit, the fact that I was getting paid to kill the motherfucker was just a bonus in my view.

I watched him as his red leather-clad body opened the passenger-side door to my car and seated himself. I remember thinking to myself, Who does this nigga think he is, Eddie Murphy fresh off his Delirious comedy special? He opened the passenger door to the Honda and nonchalantly sat. What’s up, man? said Rico as he gave me a dap with a corny-looking big grin plastered on his face.

Dude, what the fuck is up with that tight-ass red jumpsuit you have on? You look retarded as hell, I said in between giggles.

Nigga, why are you hating on me, man? Shit, I gots to look good for the type of money I be pulling in, said Rico in his thick Dominican accent.

Truth be told, the dude thought he was hot shit and was very flamboyant when it came to his style, whether it was the way he dressed or his attitude. The dude thought he was big-time, and that was his downfall, so I thought.

So you’re the cat the boss sent to check out the product I picked up from Miami, eh?

Shocked at how redundant the question sounded, I answered, You see me here driving this car, don’t you, dumbass? As my statement took its full blow on Rico’s ego, I looked at him from the corner of my eye. It was then that I became aware of how ridiculous the guy looked. His hair was fashioned in the style of a pompadour of the early 1960s. His earlobes donned ruby-studded earrings with a pair of ruby-studded sunglasses to match, which glinted each time we passed a streetlamp. Damn, nigga, who do you think you are, Elton John? I said as the bile of disgust began to rise in the back of my throat.

That’s what I hated most about the young cats coming up in the game when I was in the streets. They would come into a bit of dough; and suddenly, they were buying expensive cars, jewelry, and an outlandish wardrobe. Meanwhile, those cats didn’t have a pot to piss in because they still lived in their mama’s basement, and that was the case with Rico Red.

Ah, I see how it is, man. You just hating on me ’cause you can’t get shit right like me, he said. I could feel Rico’s spiteful smile on me as I looked straight ahead on the road as I drove. It was like his cocky smile was digging into me and grating my last nerve. I was going to enjoy killing this piece of shit, I thought to myself.

I drove in silence the entire way to Rico’s stash house as he bragged about having two side chicks and keeping a really good bitch at home who didn’t suspect a thing about his endeavors with the other two women.

Yeah, you the man, I said, not really focusing on the garbage he was spewing.

Dude, turn left right here, said Rico as he pointed toward a self-storage facility off the side of the road.

Why the fuck do you have the product stashed away in a place like this? I asked, pulling up to a chain-link security gate that had a keypad that stood on a steel pole that was situated right beside it, so when a person drove up, they would be able to punch in their entrance code from the driver’s side window. I’m gonna need your code, man, I said to Rico as I stopped the car in front of the keypad.

It’s one five seventy-six, he responded with a huge grin that revealed a set of gold front teeth. That’s my date of birth you just punched in, he said to me with a slight tinge of pride in his voice as if to convey his cleverness to me.

Jesus, he’s just a kid, I thought to myself as I watched the gate slowly open on its pulleys. Oh well, he shouldn’t have been playing a grown man’s game. He knew what the consequences were if he fucked up. He was just arrogant. These thoughts raced through my mind as my Honda rounded a corner that was filled with what seemed to be small- and medium-sized garages stacked side by side