They Call Me...Montey Greene

Chapter Forty

"WE'LL get out here," Alejandra told Charles as he turned onto Clignancourt Street in the 18th arrondissement.

Alejandra and Montey exited the car. He looked around. There was no sign of the grey car he thought was tailing them. But there were signs of 34th Street and every side street in midtown Manhattan that made up the garment district, Fulton Street and Canal Street back home. From the Africans selling handbags and luggage under the blue awnings of Luxor, to the golden arched M on the building at the cater-corner of Clignancourt and Orsel Street, to the dozens of fabric and accessory shops lining the streets in between. To say he could see the Europeans influence on America wasn't anything new, hell after all they're the ones that raided the place. It's just when something as simple as a cluster of button and zipper shops reiterates just how young the country you're from is, it's still a shock that they're considered a superpower that the elder country your vacationing in may call on for help in a time of crisis.

Now Montey Greene had a crisis of his own on his hands. He should have known that this episode in Paris was going to be a clear departure from the touristy stuff they did after they stepped off that overnight train from Milan a month ago. He literally found himself running around behind Alejandra from one wholesale garment store to the next emerging time after time with armfuls of rolled up fabrics and other design materials.

"I don't understand why you just didn't have them delivered," stated Montey.

"And take a chance on them being delayed for some reason or another, I can't afford for that to happen right now."

Somehow, despite all the traffic, Charles in the ever present Bentley seemed to be close by, not that Montey was complaining since he was the one carrying the bulk of the items. Charles popped the trunk and Montey placed the items inside then shut it. No sooner did the truck latch catch, the Bentley took off. And the whole process repeated itself until the trunk was stuffed with everything Alejandra needed to recreate her fashion collection for her upcoming fashion show at the Grand Palais.

Charles wheeled them to the 12th arrondissement and dropped them off in front of a shop with large arched glass windows displaying exquisite umbrellas on Avenue Daumesnil, and then he did his usual drive off routine.

"Umbrellas?" Montey asked out loud as he peered through the window alongside Alejandra.

"Typical American," was her response.

"What?"

"Umbrellas?" she responded in a mocking tone. "Not umbrellas. Parasols," she continued, "Parasols!"

Alejandra walked into the shop leaving Montey outside still looking through that big pane glass window. As he watched her pull swatches of material from her oversized handbag and pass them to the bespectacled man his phone vibrated. It took him a few seconds to realize what the buzzing sound was since he had been doing most of the calling since he'd been in Paris. He hadn't accepted his fate but he accepted his fate. You can either face your reality or wait until reality faces you, in which case the latter was always worse. Montey looked at the caller ID, he didn't recognize the number, but it was from the States so he answered it anyway.

"I have a collect call from Clinton Correctional Facility. Please press 1 to accept or press 5 to block calls from this caller," said the computed generated voice on the other end of the line.

Montey straightened up and looked up and down the street as if he was expecting to see someone that he knew. He couldn't receive collect calls on his cellphone but the voice recorder on the other end of the line said otherwise. He thought it was a joke and when he took too long to answer the automated system on the other end disconnected. A few seconds later his cellphone vibrated again.

"You have a collect call from Clinton Correctional Facility. Please press 1 to accept or press 5 to block calls from this caller," the automated voice recorder commanded again.

"Yeah, yeah I accept," Montey said into the phone as he pressed 1. He peered into the shop window again to see Alejandra still talking to the umbrella maker.

"Wassup twin?" stated the familiar voice he hadn't heard on the other end of his phone in a while.

Only one person referred to Montey as his twin. Spider was on the phone.

"What-up fam?" Montey said back.

"You tell me."

Montey knew it was no sense lying to Spider for if Spider was calling then he already knew that Montey was mixed up in some shit he didn't see coming down the hill, and all he was trying to do was avoid being buried beneath the stench.

"You home?" Montey asked trying to delay the inevitable.

"Nah I'm still down. You know how it is up in the bing, never know when a brother gonna get his wings. I got that kite you sent me, good lookin' out fam." There was lengthy pause then Spider asked, "What's goin' on witcha''?"

"How are you calling me?" Montey wanted to know.

"On a phone," Spider shot back in a direct-cold tone. "So now you're in the protection business huh? How's Paris this time of year homie?"

"You spoke to Caesar and Marley didn't you?"

"Does it matter?" There was a few seconds of silence then Spider said, "I put some meat out on the street to see what dogs would start barking, so you don't have to say anything, let me spell it out for ya. That Juan Carlos dude, nobody's heard of him. If he's moving that much weight then I know somebody, who knows somebody, who would've heard of him and they haven't. Now, if he's a super-heavyweight and nobody that I know has heard of him, then he's either a ghost or this is some shit designed to stay hidden on the federal level, which means I gotta throw some bigger meat out on the street to come up with a name. As far as Patricia and the kids go, I'm not a hundred percent certain where they are yet, but they ain't dead, that's all I can say for now until this umm...pigeon flies by my coop again."

"So my family is safe?"

"I said they're not dead, as of this phone call. By the time we get off, who knows?" Spider paused again. "Whatever dude is asking you to do just do it, until you hear from me again."

Click!

That's the last sound Montey heard as Spider hung up the phone.

Montey knew the streets played the snitch when his best friend Spider walked them, but even he didn't know to what extent, especially when the only place Spider was walking at the moment was on the tier or in the yard of a New York State Correctional Facility.

That uneasy feeling of being watched crept through Montey's body again; it was starting to feel like Milan all over again. He checked the time on his watch, then looked up and down the street hoping to spot anything out of the ordinary, but things had been so quiet since they arrived in France that Montey didn't even really know what to look for.