Larger Than Lyfe Read online

  Dear Reader:

  Thank you for purchasing this book, a Strebor Books title that I believe will engage, entertain, and excite you as a reader. Larger Than Lyfe by Cynthia Thornton is a fictional account of Keshari Mitchell, a young lady determined to obtain fortune and fame at any cost…and there is always a cost. Love can make you do unimaginable things and the right words can convince you to toss aside your beliefs, ethics, and morals to please another. Such is the case with Keshari. Once she realizes that she is in way over her head, she attempts to alter the parameters of a game that she never should have agreed to play in the first place. Droves of women are behind bars today after realizing that the stakes of love were way too high.

  Cynthia Thornton has a wonderful literary career ahead of her and I am proud to present Larger Than Lyfe to my dedicated supporters.

  Thanks for supporting all of the Strebor Books authors. To find me on the web, please go to www.eroticanoir.com or join my online social network, www.planetzane.org

  Blessings,

  Zane

  Publisher

  Strebor Books International

  www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks

  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  http://www.streborbooks.com.

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2011 by Cynthia Diane Thornton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN 978-1-59309-319-8

  LCCN 2010940491

  First Strebor Books trade paperback edition February 2010

  Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com

  Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

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  FOR JASON AND DEVAN—

  I love you infinitely, eternally, my 6’2” babies.

  —Mommie

  FOREWORD

  The following fictional account is ENTERTAINMENT, no different than the erotic novel or the lyrical braggadocio of the hip-hop star. The closer that I came to completion of the entire publishing process for this novel, Larger Than Lyfe, the larger the moral implications of it all became for me. I did not want readers to believe that I was attempting to glamorize drug trafficking nor the gangster’s lifestyle; hence, this foreword.

  My primary goal for this novel, from the very beginning, was ENTERTAINMENT. My mission is to provide to readers with what so many of us LOVE…the gangster’s story…because there are millions of us who are absolutely mesmerized by the danger, the intricate schemes, the unbelievable sums of money, the power, the corruption, the sex, and the bloodshed that are always associated with gangsters.

  In every major city in America and in a few, not-so-major cities as well, a gangster’s story exists. The gangster’s story and his (or her) organized criminal affiliations and activities are as much a part of the fabric of this country as the dead presidents depicted on the currency that we exchange. Two, relatively new genres in the publishing industry called “street lit” and “true crime” were created to feed the fascination of those of us who love the gangster’s story and a whole smorgasbord of authors in these two genres relish in feeding us what we love, from Nikki Turner’s Riding Dirty on I-95 to Mario Puzo’s classic, The Godfather, to Teri Woods’s series, True to the Game.

  Scarface, The Godfather, The Sopranos, GoodFellas, Belly, American Gangster, State Property, and Casino are all well-known and highly successful films. The film industry has probably been the most successful at providing us with vivid, mostly fictionalized depictions of the gangster’s story.

  A multibillion-dollar, money-making enterprise has been created using every available form of media, from music to books to movies to video games, to feed the overwhelming fascination that so many of us have for the gangster story. We all know that what these people do is unbelievably, heinously wrong, but, just like watching the aftermath of a horrific car crash, we cannot seem to stop watching, reading and wanting to know more, as much as we can about what gangsters do, how they live, who they are.

  Once I’ve fully engaged my readers’ attention with sex, humor, drama, danger and luxe lifestyles and landscapes transpiring in the lives of some of America’s rich, famous and infamous, my mission is always to drop some knowledge, to educate, to give readers mental “food” to turn over in their minds. My desire is to provide readers with some truth, facts, provocative topics for more serious and substantive discussions and debates and, quite possibly, progressive action once they’ve finished reading my book. For example: some of the most ruthless and most intriguing gangsters of all are members of our own government, past and current. Powerful figures who are connected, well-connected, and very well-connected in American politics have closely protected their own dirty, little secrets of direct involvement in organized crime—from the Iran-Contra scandal to Halliburton to the alleged affiliations of “Camelot’s” patriarch, Joe Kennedy, to what is taking place in the Middle Eastern areas of Iraq and Afghanistan right now. There is enough material throughout the history of the United States and American government that exposes ruthless, deceptive, and completely illegal financial schemes and enterprises committed by powerful political figures or powerful men with powerful political connections to make blockbuster, gangster page-turners for years to come. You see, real gangsters do more than run drug rings, racketeering and prostitution operations in the seedy underbellies of major cities. Real gangsters have the power to affect the policies that directly affect YOU and ME.

  Enjoy Larger Than Lyfe. There is definitely more to come.

  PROLOGUE

  Misha had given Keshari all of the fucking space that she intended to give to her. Enough was e-goddamned-nough. Misha knew that Keshari had been going through a lot over the past few weeks. Nix that. The past year had been a long one for Keshari. Keshari had some major, life-altering decisions to make. She had a mountain of demands to shoulder from one day to the next and it was a wonder that she hadn’t burnt out or collapsed from stress and exhaustion a long time ago. She kept so much bottled up inside herself. Misha was closer to Keshari and knew her better than anybody else, but even she often glimpsed that solemn, distant look in her best friend’s eyes and said to herself, “She’s right here in front of me, yet she’s so, so damned far away…like she’s all alone in the world. I wonder what she’s thinking about because I know she’ll never tell me.”

  The last time that the two of them spoke, Keshari had told Misha that she was going to take a bit of time to herself to try and get her head together. She started working from home. She was taking very few, if any, calls. She wasn’t accepting any visitors either. For the past week, Misha had called Keshari’s house more times than she could count and, although Keshari’s damned housekeeper could barely speak English, she could definitely crank out that “Mees Mitchell es unavailable,” and then promptly hang up.

  That morning, however, Misha had firmly decided to bypass the futile phone calls. She was going straight to Keshari’s house and she was NOT leaving until she saw Keshari, made sure that her best friend was okay, and gave her a piece of her mind. If Keshari dedicated more
time to her personal needs on a regular basis instead of putting everything she had into work, Misha planned to tell Keshari, she wouldn’t be all holed up in that big ass house like she was Howard fucking Hughes! She knew that there was so much more to Keshari’s situation than a constantly gargantuan workload, but she didn’t even know how to begin to touch upon those things. So Misha would do what she had always done with Keshari. She would scold Keshari in the way that best girlfriends often did, in the trademark fashion that only Misha could do; she would act as if Keshari’s situation was almost a normal one, with a solution as simple as Keshari “taking personal time for herself, chilling out, and getting some rest.” Then she would end her admonishments by letting Keshari know that she loved her and that she would always be there for her in whatever way that she needed her to be…for ANYTHING. Keshari would come through her current situation just as she had courageously, miraculously come through so much else.

  Misha got dressed and was preparing to leave when a messenger rang her doorbell. Misha quickly signed for the envelope the messenger held on his clipboard and ripped it open. It was a letter from Keshari. Misha read it as quickly as she could while juggling files from her office, invitation samples for an upcoming party that she was throwing, her purse, sunglasses, BlackBerry, and keys.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Misha exclaimed, realizing what was being conveyed in Keshari’s letter to her.

  Everything she held went all over the floor as she went racing frantically out to her car.

  Mars was in his office when his secretary came to the door escorting a messenger delivering a package that could only be signed for by Mars Buchanan himself. Mars opened the messenger envelope and instantly recognized the pink parchment stationery inside. He closed the door to his office and sat down to carefully read Keshari’s communication to him in privacy. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, not since their break-up, and he had to admit to himself that he really, really missed her.

  “Shit!” Mars exclaimed in shock, dropping the letter to the floor.

  He told his secretary to cancel his schedule for the day, saying quickly that he had an emergency, as he went running for the elevator. A moment later, his Mercedes was speeding at 100 miles per hour up the 405 freeway to Keshari’s Palos Verdes home.

  Mars arrived at Paradiso Drive to a scene of utter chaos. Emergency vehicles were everywhere and emergency workers contended with television news crews arriving on the scene. Mars could barely get through the pandemonium as he pulled up outside the gates at Keshari’s home. A reporter recognized him and rushed over to the car.

  “Get the FUCK away from me!” Mars yelled, rolling up his window.

  Sam Perkins, head of Keshari’s security team, opened the gates and Mars’s car sped inside.

  “Sam, what’s going on?” Mars asked anxiously, hopping out of the car.

  Sam Perkins bowed his head and Mars took off running up the drive.

  Misha was standing on the lawn, emitting the most chilling scream that Mars had ever heard, as a pair of police officers attempted to calm her. Mars went to her and she collapsed in his arms. Cold, frozen fear took hold of his heart.

  “What’s happened, Misha? Come on. What happened?” Mars asked, hugging Misha and attempting to console her.

  “She’s…she’s…she’s…dead!” Misha garbled through her hysterical sobbing. “She’s GONE!”

  A caravan of black, customized Suburbans coasted swiftly up Alameda Street, across Broadway, and into Long Beach’s deserted industrial section near the waterfront. It was almost 2 a.m. and virtually all of the shipping and manufacturing facilities in the area were closed down for the night, scheduled to reopen for their daily business around 6 a.m.

  The caravan of expensive SUVs pulled onto the graveled lot of a white brick warehouse at the darkened end of Third Street. The driver in the first truck pressed the buzzer at the warehouse entrance. The warehouse’s tall, steel doors rolled open. The caravan of trucks pulled smoothly inside. The doors rolled shut again behind them.

  Four armed men, with the kind of muscular bulk acquired during lengthy stints in state and federal prison systems, hopped out of the front and rear vehicles and checked the warehouse’s perimeter. After confirmation that the warehouse was secure, one of the men gave a signal to the middle truck’s driver. The driver hopped out and held open the Suburban’s rear door and out stepped Keshari Mitchell, tall, brown, exotic-looking, clad in black leather Chanel, with a long, sleek, braided ponytail and striking, almond-shaped green eyes. She strode with refined confidence over to the center of the warehouse where her business associates awaited her, her bodyguards watching everything around them as if they were protecting the President.

  “Ms. Mitchell,” Javier Sandovar said graciously, taking Keshari’s hand, “so good to see you again. Why don’t we get right down to business?”

  Mario Jimenez and Oso Suarez, two of the bulky, tattooed men who’d accompanied Javier Sandovar, whipped five, large utility cases onto the table and clicked them open. Inside each of the utility cases were fifteen kilograms of 80 percent pure, Colombian cocaine. With smooth precision, Oso Suarez cut a small slit in one of the large, plastic packages of white powder. With the blade of his knife, he scooped out a small amount of the powder and dropped it into a tiny test tube. He added solution with a dropper to confirm that the product he’d brought was exactly what Keshari had come to buy. The mixture of the solution and white powder turned a bright blue.

  “Very nice,” Keshari said, removing a gold, Cartier cigar holder and lighter from her clutch. She clipped the cigar’s end and lit it, exhaling a pungent cloud of the expensive, Cuban cigar smoke into the air. Javier smiled at her and nodded, pleased with her approval.

  “Two million?” Keshari asked.

  “Two million,” Javier answered.

  Keshari nodded to one of the bodyguards, who pulled two large duffle bags from the rear of the middle Suburban and brought them over to the table, unzipping them to display crisp, new hundred-dollar bills bound together in ten thousand-dollar stacks. Oso Suarez carefully went through each of the duffle bags to confirm that all of the money was there. He nodded to Javier.

  “Very good, then,” Javier said. “We’ll see each other again in one month. The offshore accounts will be in place. Payment is expected upon confirmation of completion of each delivery.”

  “Of course.” Keshari smiled, Javier kissing her on both cheeks.

  “By the way, we have been following Mr. Tresvant’s upcoming trial,” Javier said. “Tell him that we send our regards and support. It is all most unfortunate. My family hopes that his current situation will not interfere in any way with our business relationship. Murder charges against powerful, Black men tend to draw federal attention.”

  “I assure you, Javier, and I ask that you pass my assurances on to the rest of your family. All bases are covered. We look forward to Richard’s exoneration on all charges and a very prosperous future between our two organizations.”

  “Let us hope so.” Javier smiled.

  Keshari strode over to her waiting car and slid inside while her bodyguards kept a watchful eye on Keshari’s business associates and the product that their organization had just purchased. Two of them loaded the cases of cocaine into the front and middle SUVs. The warehouse doors rolled open. Keshari’s bodyguards all loaded into the three trucks. A moment later, the caravan of black automobiles disappeared back into the early morning darkness.

  Phinnaeus Bernard III was a prominent corporate attorney in Los Angeles legal circles, but, unbeknown to most, he was becoming as dirty as it gets.

  It was nearly 11 p.m. in the underground parking garage at 300 South Grand when security guards, making their final round before the next shift took over, discovered Phinnaeus Bernard’s silver Mercedes sedan, not in his reserved space, but at the bottom level of the high-rise office building’s parking structure with the driver’s side door ajar.

  Sirens. Police arrived at the scene to find Phinnaeu
s Bernard inside his car with his brains and blood splattered all over the car’s interior. He’d been murdered execution-style, a bullet to the head and two bullets to the chest, apparently with a gun that had a silencer since there’d been no reports of gunfire. Phinnaeus’s BlackBerry was beside him on the passenger seat with a partial phone number entered as if he had been in the process of making a call. In the car’s trunk, detectives found a large file case, Phinnaeus’s laptop, and his briefcase. A substantial quantity of cocaine was in the file case and one hundred-thousand dollars cash was inside the briefcase, along with client documents and legal pads of notes related to an upcoming trial.

  Phinnaeus Bernard III had been an astute litigator who had established an illustrious career defending and winning cases for multimillion-dollar, corporate clients who, more often than not, had some questionable corporate ethics; and Phinnaeus Bernard had died, leaving behind an extremely messy set of questions and incriminating evidence against himself that was bound to be one of the greatest scandals that his prestigious law firm had ever seen.

  Keshari could remember the events surrounding the very first man that she’d murdered as if they had happened only moments ago. It was the first and last time that she’d ever used cocaine. She’d had to. She wouldn’t have been able to do what she did if she hadn’t.

  Ricky had said that the man, her target, was a threat to the organization and that his termination was required and overdue. “This is a test,” Ricky had told her, “and if you want all the way into this, you MUST pass this test.”

  That night, Keshari saw death with her own eyes…for the second time in her life. The blood splattered and she’d been so close that it went all over her. She could smell the thick, metallic smell of gunfire after pulling the trigger, and the smell still lingered so potent in her nostrils and memory despite all the years that had passed. She snapped her mind out of it. She hated when the hit that she’d personally carried out, the first of three murders that she’d committed with her own hands, popped into her mind out of nowhere and dominated her thoughts.