Madam Cocaina:A Queen Pin's Story 3

By: Fatima Munroe

I saw Gomez’s face turn a dark shade of purple. “¿Madame de Cocaína? Reina de Colombia, por favor quiero pedir disculpas por mis acciones, (Madame Cocaine? Queen of Colombia, please let me apologize for my actions),” he began shakily. “No sabía que era usted (I didn’t know it was you).”

“Tengo una pregunta para usted: ¿Dónde está Josef Borrego? (I have one question for you: where is Josef Borrego?)

“Reina, por favor créeme cuando te digo que estoy siendo completamente honesto acerca de no saber quien es este Josef Borrego (Queen, please believe me when I tell you I’m being completely honest about not knowing who this Josef Borrego is),” Gomez shook with fright.

I bent over and shoved my face into his. “¿Que están suministrando además los cabecillas en el Bolivia? (Who are you supplying besides the kingpins in Bolivia?)”

Gomez blinked twice as if he was mentally running down his client list. “Yo sólo la oferta de cabecillas. No hay nadie. (I only supply kingpins. No one else.)”

“Usted o su tío Roberto es un mentiroso. Tú y él no siente mi poder, pero no tengo ningún problema en mostrar por qué SOY LA REINA! (Either you or your uncle Roberto is a liar. You and him both fail to feel my power, but I have no problem showing you why I AM THE QUEEN!)” I screamed as Manuel picked Gomez up by the ankles and began to drag him towards the house.

“¡UN MOMENTO! ¡UN MOMENTO! REINA TE HABLO! TE HABLO! (WAIT! WAIT! QUEEN I’LL TALK! I’LL TALK!) Gomez screamed as he clutched aimlessly at the blades of grass while being dragged through the yard. “Por favor no llevarme en esa casa! (Please don’t take me into that house!)”

I waved for Manuel to stop while I caught up with them both. “¿Oh, así que ahora tu memoria se ha disparado? Buena. Charla. (Oh, so now your memory has been triggered? Good. Talk).”

“La cabeza de Los Hombres, cartel de Dinero y Asesinato. También le suministramos. (The head of Men, Money, and Murder cartel. I supply him as well).”

“¿Quién es él? ¿Cuál es su nombre? (Who is he? What’s his name?) I demanded to know.

“Nadie sabe su nombre. Es conocido sólo como la Muerte de Padre. Asesino de sangre fría en Peru (No one knows his name. He’s known only as Father Death. Cold blooded killer in Peru),” Gomez spoke in a rush.

“¿Por qué es que suministrar ningún cartel en este continente? Nunca aprobé (Why is it that you supply any cartel on this continent? I never approved that),” I was highly pissed that Gomez was making a profit on a man that could be my flesh and blood.

“Reina, él vino a mí después de que Santiago murió. Pensé que le daría su… (Queen, he came to me after Santiago died. I figured I’d give him your…)”

“Imaginé que haría un beneficio! Me jode, ¿eh? EH! Manuel, toma su teléfono y me información de Muerte del Padre. Después de eso, hacer lo que haces (You figured you’d make a profit! Fuck me, huh? HUH! Manuel, take his phone and get me Father Death’s information. After that, do what you do),” I advised as I followed them in the house with Gomez kicking and screaming. For a fleeting moment, I felt the same feeling that I felt when I was in my grandmother’s presence the day at the hospital, when I coded while in a coma. Smiling as Agusto passed me Gomez’s phone with one phone number in it, I hit talk and waited to hear the voice of my long lost brother, amid Gomez’s screams echoing from the hidden compartment built behind the walls.

Chapter 3

Listening to the melodic staccato of my Stuart Weitzman heels as I walked into the office of Father Death the next morning, I marveled at the décor. His study was similar to my old one at the house in Chesapeake, back when everything was easy, everything made sense, and I lived in ignorance of the atrocities that my husband committed underneath that roof. The thought alone made me want to have that house doused with gasoline and torched while I roasted marshmallows for the departed.

“¿Han estado esperando mucho tiempo? (Have you been waiting long?)” a woman asked as she entered the room smelling like a rare flower.

“No tengo. ¿Quién eres? (No I haven’t. Who are you?)” I asked arrogantly.

She smiled politely at me. “Ah, eres lindo. Soy Samaria, Asistente de personal de la Muerte. (Ah, you’re cute. I’m Samaria, Death’s personal assistant),” she replied passively.

“¿Es grave? ¿Su asistente personal? (Are you serious? His personal assistant?)” I chuckled. “Haz Muerte aquí ahora mismo, no trato con la ayuda (Get Death in here right now, I don’t deal with the help),” I replied dismissively. Apparently Miss Samaria didn’t know of my reputation, but if she said one more slick comment out of her mouth, she’d quickly find out.

Samaria threw her head back and laughed. “Nadie ve Muerte Padre sin mí los antecedentes primero. Puesto que no pase mi examen, hay la puerta (No one sees Father Death without me vetting them first. Since you didn’t pass my test, there’s the door),” she replied as she walked towards the book case. Before she could raise her arm and pat the secret entrance that I knew was there (because I had one myself), I had a razor blade to her throat, ready to slice into her flesh.

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