Last Laugh Read online

Three things consumed him and was born out of one thought; his family. How was this about to affect them? He thought of his son and fiancé, Toi. His parents, younger sister, and grandmother. But most important, his older brother, Andre Bezel.

  Damn, bro. You might be pissed at me for this one, but I take a lot of things, shit ain’t one of them, he thought, and sat up. His skin was hot and the plastic mattress had made it hotter. He felt like his insides were melting.

  “Fuck.”

  Kareem stood up and took two short walks around the cell. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said as a wave of heat consumed him. It was weird because the cells were typically freezing cold. He slammed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. “Heat rises. Fuck that,” he said and laid in the fetal position on the floor. I’m a prisoner, he thought and smiled. Don’t let anything stress me. None of their tactics can harm me. Them mutha fuckas are not out to kill me. They’re trying to break me. Picture that. I am staring down the barrel of a life federal sentence and I am not losing any sleep about it. Why? I have one very important man on my side. Well, two. First God, and then Ravonne Lemmelle, my esteemed attorney.

  4

  BOSTON AREA, THAT EVENING

  Former DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey had been holed up in Cambridge, MA since his escape from federal custody. He killed the man that helped him escape, and now made a great homeless man. He panhandled money from hardworking MIT and Harvard University students by day. And by night, he stashed his homeless sign that read, I AM WANTED BY THE FEDS HELP ME, in the top of one of the newspaper dispensers which held free newspapers that covered the Boston area. His homeless shift had ended, and he then proceeded to the Harvard Square train station and rode into the Back Bay area of Boston.

  The psychopath headed to a local Starbucks and changed out of his homeless costume. He traded it for an Armani suit, fancy wingtips, chrome briefcase, and a duffle bag. He tossed his homeless duds into the duffle bag, and then headed to his suite at the Four Seasons hotel in downtown Boston on Avery Street. It was located across the street from the Boston Commons and he enjoyed watching the people in the park from his suite.

  When he entered the hotel, he was greeted by the bellman who held the door open for him.

  "Good evening, and welcome back, Mr. Trump," the bellman said to him and smiled.

  McKenzey simply nodded his head and smiled back. He headed to his room and adored that the hotel was under the foolish impression that he was a Trump, as in a brother of the real estate tycoon, Donald Trump. They ate up all of his garish stories about Christmas in the Trump home. They would chuckle. So did he though. They'd be laughing at the absurd things he made up about Donald Trump. And he'd be laughing at them. It was all a game. His game. The former DEA agent wanted to win. Winning over the hotel staff was easy enough. It was inmate Kareem Bezel that he hadn't beat. That had to change. Enough time had lapsed, and he was ready to play.

  McKenzey exited the elevator on the 6th floor and headed down to his suite. It was named after former President Kennedy. He entered his room, and then tossed his blazer onto the bed. He had the hotel maid trained to have his TV turned on at 5:45 p.m. along with a fresh pail of ice to compliment a bottle of Magnum Grey Goose Vodka.

  McKenzey slipped out of the rest of his clothing and then walked over to the hotel windows. He was in a corner suite and opened all of the curtains. He looked out at a postcard view of Boston’s Public Garden, and smiled. No one could see him in the buff, but he didn’t care if they had. In the distance he looked out at Beacon Hill and the gilded dome of the State House. Perhaps, I’ll have dinner at Cheers tonight, he thought. I’ll be there, and everyone will know my name, but not know that I am right there in their presence. He chuckled and then lifted the vodka bottle into the air and took a big gulp. No glass was needed for him to enjoy the smooth taste.

  He was suddenly glued to the TV screen, having heard the mention of Kareem Bezel and the words prison riot. CNN had set the trap and former DEA Lucas McKenzey kissed the television screen. He then placed his hands on each side of the flat screen and extended his arms. He got a good look at the reporter and said, "Thank you." Before kissing the screen again.

  The news of inmate Kareem Bezel being locked down for inciting a riot had been the best news since Lance Armstrong confessed to using performance enhancing drugs. He hated all things American, with no desire to flee the country until he obtained revenge against the beloved Bezel Brothers. And it seemed that at that moment was the right time to kick Kareem when he was already down. The corrections staff had bound Kareem and McKenzey was ready to gag him.

  5

  PHILADELPHIA, LATE NIGHT

  Andre Bezel sped down I-76 from Germantown headed to Center City. He had a mission after watching the news broadcast of his brother being the center of a prison riot. He was lost and didn’t understand what had happened, but he wanted to help him and be there for him as he knew that his brother was in danger.

  Kareem was the exact opposite of his older brother. The one year separation was just enough to render Andre the street corner boy, and Kareem the nerd. But he was no ordinary street thug and his younger brother was no common nerd. They were both college graduates. Andre had a Business degree from New York University and Kareem had one in International Marketing from Columbia University. Andre swerved in and out of traffic and recalled how they both lived in and terrorized New York City while they were there studying. He was back in Philadelphia, though, and rented out his New York property. There was no way that he could live in a home where he and his brother tortured a corrupt DEA agent who broke in with intentions of killing him, his girlfriend and his son.

  DEA agent McKenzey had given the Bezel Brothers all that he could to take them down and for a while it seemed like it worked. That was not the case, though. The brothers remained a step ahead of the agent. Money made that a simple thing, and the brothers had plenty of it. They also had a plan: Accuse the agent of forcing Kareem to embezzle money from the bank where he worked at and to fund the illicit drug ring headed by Andre. And it seemed to work. McKenzey had been indicted and jailed just like the brothers.

  Kareem had managed to stay out of jail on bail, while Andre was in jail. He was eventually released on bail after the Government was repeatedly unprepared to proceed. But in a major twist, Kareem was arrested and accused of aiding McKenzey’s escape. It was an absurd set-up that landed his brother in jail and now locked down for a prison riot. That made no sense to Andre.

  “Fuck out of the way,” Andre said to a slow moving car on the expressway.

  He was determined to put some sort of plan into motion to get his brother out of the jail. Or at least the county one, and sent back to FDC. The way he had seen it, they should not have warehoused Kareem in a county jail to relieve the federal building of its overcrowding issue in the first place.

  It was rumored by police that Kareem was the mastermind of the operation, and they were probably right. But one thing was for certain, Andre Bezel had an equally brilliant mind, and he was headed to meet with Kareem’s lawyer to execute a plan to help his brother.

  6

  PHILADELPHIA, GERMANTOWN

  Grandmom Jean-Mary was in her kitchen baking a cake and enjoying it. She sang a Smokey Robinson tune, although disturbed by the news that her beloved grandson had been in trouble in the jail. Andre didn’t really didn’t want to tell her what he had learned, but Grandmom Jean-Mary wasn’t an ordinary grandparent. She was down to earth and didn’t pretend to have traded in her street smarts to become an out of touch grandmother.

  Toi, Kareem’s wife walked into the kitchen, and plopped on a chair. She watched Grandmom Jean Mary spreading icing on her cake and humming to the radio. The radio was set to the contemporary station, and she was mumbling the words to Tonight by John Legend.

  “Grandmom, what you know about that, John Legend?” Toi asked smiling.

  “I know a lot about that,” Grandmom Jean Mary replied and chuckled. Amir came i
nto the kitchen and curled under his great-grandmother’s wheel chair. “Here boy, you can have the icing spoon.” To Toi she said, “I have you know I know a few new songs. Thank you very much.”

  “I see,” Toi replied and sang a little of the song too. She wished that Kareem was not in jail, so that she could experience some of the things in John Legend’s song.

  “Amir, take that spoon in the living room, and let me talk to your mom, ok, honey,” Grandmom Jean-Mary said to her baby. She covered her cake, and said, “Latoya Eala, you better snap out of it.”

  “I can’t Grandmom. A riot? That’s so scary. How are you so cool about this? I just can’t imagine what’s happening with him. I am so afraid.”

  “Listen here, you have that child in there to worry about.” she said giving Toi a hard stern stare. “Let me tell you what you already know, Kareem doesn’t get involved in anything that he has not masterfully mapped out how to get out of. You’re worried about nothing. He is a warrior and you need to relax.”

  “So you’re not worried, Grandmom. As long as we’ve been living here with you, I haven’t seen you worry. That’s very brave of you. I guess that is where Kareem got it from.”

  “Oh, baby, I worry. The thing that you just pointed out is that, you don’t see me worry. That’s no way to live. I don’t exhibit my worry for the world to see. I’ve had my foot amputated and go to dialysis three times a week, and guess what? I am not worrying. God has me, and God has your husband.”

  “I wish I had my husband,” she said and smiled.

  “Oh, honey, you need some nooky?” Grandmom Jean-Mary asked and cracked up.

  “You’re too much, Grandmom.”

  “No, I am not. I am just real. See, you have to really understand that I am as much your friend as your grandmom. You can tell me anything. I am a great listener, and I can tell you some great things.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  “Good, now, do you want coffee or tea or cocoa to go with this cake?’

  “Hot chocolate,” said Amir as he walked into the kitchen. He climbed on his mother’s lap, and added, “Cake, too.”

  “Boy, you’re too much.” Grandmom Jean-Mary cut the cake.

  7

  PHILADELPHIA, RAVONNE LEMMELLE’S HOME

  Andre Bezel pulled onto Pine Street, and stopped in front of the driveway of attorney, Ravonne Lemmelle’s home. The Olde City area was clean and quiet, but was about to get shaken up by Andre Bezel. He parked at the end of the driveway and blocked in a parked BMW 750LI and a Range Rover. Ravonne and his lover, Dajuan’s vehicles.

  He didn’t anticipate any problems with the attorney, whom was also his cousin. He was prepared though, to act a fool if Ravonne didn’t cave into his demands and plan. His plan that needed to be tweaked and worked on, but never less it was a plan. Andre knew that since Ravonne did the Harvard Law School thing and moved from Uptown to Downtown, so his innate ghetto training may need to be adjusted.

  Andre exited the car and then walked up the driveway. He had a peculiar look on his face when he looked down at his vibrating cell phone. It was his girlfriend, Tasha, he ignored the call. True, he loved her and she was his world, but his chief concern at that time was his little brother. He sent her a text informing her that he was at Ravonne’s and that he would contact her when he left.

  Andre made his way up the five stairs that led to the home and the door opened before he could knock.

  “Took you long enough, cuz,” Ravonne said, and held his hand out for Andre to shake. “We’ve changed the carpet from white to cream, but we still ask our guests to remove their shoes and wear moccasins.”

  “Let me guess, that must be the man of the house rules,” Andre said and laughed.

  “Oh, you have gay jokes right out the gate, huh? Actually, it’s my rule, ugly ass alien.” Ravonne headed to the bar. “Besides, the man of this house is grown ass Brandon, not Dajuan.”

  “Oh, wow. He’s grown now?” Andre asked, “What’chu drinking?”

  “Brandy, man. You don’t know about that. I have some ripple for you.”

  “You’re a fool,” Andre said walking over to the bar. He raised a bottle of Ciroc into the air. “I’ll take this.” He crack the bottle open and took a long sip. His face bunched up as the vodka coated his throat and stomach. “Now, I can really hatch a plan.”

  “So you’re going to just purloin my liquor.”

  “Come on, cuz, with the big ass words. Although, I know that one. We have to get Kareem out of there,” he said as Ms. Pearl circled his feet.

  Ravonne pick up his stocky, white Manx and held her in his arms. He sat on the piano seat before he put her on the floor, and dug into his briefcase.

  Andre looked around the living room and smiled inside. He was proud of his cousin and despite his same sex love affair, Ravonne was his flesh and blood and he loved him as that. He looked at the piano and the large clock that was made out of a drummer’s cymbal and thought about Ravonne’s lover.

  “Where is Dajuan and Brandon?”

  “They’re at the chess club,” Ravonne said pulling his eyes from a document long enough to reply.

  “Chess club?” Andre asked shocked. “So your six year old learns Spanish, takes boxing and Judo, and now chess?”

  “I am raising a child prodigy. Just like his dad.”

  “You ain’t no damn child prodigy. How’s he holding up knowing that Dajuan killed his mom? I still can’t believe it.”

  Ravonne was not prepared to relive the moment that his estranged now deceased wife, Ariel and his gay lover had faced off, and she met her maker as a result. “Dajuan was in a life or death situation, and he did what he had to do,” he replied and thought about how Dajuan was arrested, but later released on bail. He was eventually acquitted because the murder had happened right in front of the FBI. They were following Ariel for conspiring in a plot with a serial criminal, Mr. 357, to kidnap Brandon and murder Ravonne.

  Ravonne snapped back from memory lane and handed Andre a document. “So what’s your plan to get Kareem out of jail that you rushed over here to tell me?”

  “I’m thinking he has to be broken out. Kidnapped.” Andre said, and then looked at the papers that Ravonne handed him. “If McKenzey has been out for this long, I am sure we can get Kareem out and keep him out.”

  “You make a great point, and that is what the legal document that you’re holding seeks to do,” Ravonne said and sipped his Brandy. “In your hands is the most powerful Motion to Dismiss that I have ever written.”

  “This is all good, man, but this doesn’t guarantee my brother’s release.” Andre tossed the motion on the sofa next to him. “He needs to be out of there right now.” Andre was beginning to get angry and wasn’t sure that Ravonne understood his urgency.

  “Andre, I hear you, but this is all we can do. It’s a great novel that you have spinning in your head, but we can’t pull off an escape plan. Besides, it’s not worth it. There is no way that he’ll be found guilty of aiding Agent McKenzey’s release. No jury would believe that.”

  “Cool,” Andre said and then stood up. “Well, you have no problem helping me get him out of there. Illegally.”

  “First of all, you need to have a seat. You’re making me nervous standing and pacing around,” Ravonne stood up also. He walked over to the bar, poured another drink, and then returned to his seat. “I tell you what. I can get Kareem out of the House of Correction and taken back to FDC. That’ll at least get him out of county segregation and back on a normal housing unit.”

  “No, fuck dat,” Andre said and sipped the vodka again. “While they are transferring him, we can grab him and get him out of that bullshit. May have to kill a couple of Secret Service agents or marshals on top of that, but I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Man, you need to stop that. Are you belligerent?”

  “It’s called drunk.” Andre smirked. “I am not, though.” He looked at Ravonne and smirked again. “Perhaps it’s called inebriated
in your world.”

  “Man, don’t you start.”

  “Start what? You act like I am trying to hear that uppity shit. You still a black boy. I don’t give a fuck about your vocabulary, man. Start talking what I want to hear in my language.”

  Ravonne paused a minute and gathered himself. He knew Andre all too well, and he hated for anyone to go against him. It was a mandatory thing for him to get some counseling because his belief that the world revolved around him was a delusion. Delicately, Ravonne said, “I apologize for this, but we have to do the right things if we want to help Kareem.”

  “That’s the bottom line.”

  “Yes, so we’re not breaking the man out of jail for a case that will undoubtedly be dismissed, and cause him even greater problems.”

  “You wanna, bet.” Andre opened the vodka bottle again. He took another big gulp that scorched his throat. He stood up. “I am going to get him out of there, and you’re going to fucking like it.”

  “You need to stop that. I need a client.”

  “You have one. And, guess what? You can still represent him in absentia, because I am going to come up with a shownuff way to get him up out of there.” Andre slipped his boots back on. “And all you have to do is get an acquittal and he won’t have to turn himself in. Hell, they can pretend to search for him like they’re doing McKenzey.”

  “Come on. Listen to yourself. You know that I can’t convince a client of how successful a motion will be with the court, but as my cousin, I assure you that this motion is winnable.”

  “Your job should be easy in that case, counselor,” Andre said as he opened the front door and left the condo.

  8

  PHILADELPHIA, ANDRE’S HOME,

  THE NEXT DAY

  Andre walked into his Germantown apartment and heard his son laughing hysterically. He walked into the kitchen where the laughter had been coming from and grabbed his son out of the chair. He spun him in the air, and asked him what was so funny at eight in the morning.

  “When the door opened and mom called you Oscar the Grouch I just laughed and laughed,” the happy boy said.