Cold Lick Interview

Q & A: Fabrice Mousassi

In Part One of a three-part series, the following interview between Cortez Law III and the soon-to-be released Fabrice Mousassi took place at the Georgia Department of Corrections’ Baldwin State Prison in Milledgeville, GA. Cortez cued his digital voice recorder and held it up toward the phone. He believed he got the audio just fine but was more concerned that the plexiglass partition held up in case of a Mousassi meltdown. Of course, if he did, there went the soon to be ex-con’s freedom. Plus, plenty of Georgia’s finest corrections officers spurned their eyes at the proceedings. As Mousassi strolled in, he stood about six feet or six-one and looked built at around 200 pounds. Mousassi’s fair complexion and hair texture put him in the category of an African-American man or some bi-racial mixture. He nodded at the white baggy short-sleeved shirt and pants prisoner. It wasn’t returned. This entire scene reminded him never to come to prison without a guaranteed departure at his convenience. The prisoner grabbed the phone with his left hand and placed it against his left ear. He never took his eyes off his visitor. Cortez followed suit with the phone and Mousassi waited.

Law III: Okay Mr. Mousassi, we’re recording starting now. I appreciate you taking the time out to speak to me.

Mousassi: Does it look like I have much else to do? Much else besides starin’ at these four walls. Four walls and a cellie I can barely stand. What are you a student? A student who got a late start in his penal education?

Law III: No sir. I’m a writer, an author slash novelist of crime stories.

Mousassi: I’m the only con you talkin’ to?

Law III: Well, yes sir. I was particularly interested in interviewing prisoners on the verge of freedom.

Mousassi: Okay, I qualify. What do you wanna know?

Law III: I know something of why you’re in here. How is it you came into this life of crime?

Mousassi: The implication of your question. Your question implies that this is all I know. All I ever cared to know.

Law III: I apologize—

Mousassi: Have the balls to stick to your point-of-view. Point-of-view is direction. Direction can come from or lead to the silver spoon. The silver spoon or the cankered one.

Law III: From your tone, is that to say then you were directed with the cankered point-of-view in life?

Mousassi: Like any adolescent, I had help. I had help with the nature v. nurture. Guess who won?

Law III: I don’t have a clue, but usually a mix of both is the culprit.

Mousassi: Good guess. Nature and nurture come from somewhere don’t it? Somewhere in the gene pool. Well, my pool was cankered. Cankered in the womb. Cankered within the sperm and egg shake. Did I have a chance or choice? Did I have a chance or choice bein’ born? Did I have a chance or a choice who to call father and mother? Mixture of both is right. Cankered point-of-view is right. And guess what? Two rights don’t make a wrong or a right. It is and was what it is and was.

Law III: I see that. Ah, what kind of steps to better yourself did you take to help you when you got back on the outside?

Mousassi: Baby ones.

Law III: Care to elaborate a little?

Mousassi: Very little. Q & A: Fabrice Mousassi

Law III: Okay. Do you have someone waiting for you on the outside?

Mousassi: What? That whole significant other thing? Yeah, better than what I started with. Correction, ha, that’s poetic. Correction, better than what I was later stuck with. Not better than what I started with. Not better than what I started with in part.

Law III: You mean—

Mousassi: Just what I said.

Law III: I want to be clear I’m following, Mr. Mousassi. You’re talking about family again?

Mousassi: Yeah.

Law III: All right. What kind of work skills do you have? Did you learn a trade, a vocation of some kind?

Mousassi: Like?

Law III: Like machinery, ah auto mechanics, you know.

Mousassi: Heat.

Law III: Excuse me?

Mousassi: Heat.

Law III: Heat. Oh, HVAC.

Mousassi: Heat!

Law III: Heat? Oh, you’re hot. I could signal a guard to check—

Mousassi: Think that really matters to them? Try this: For the first time since 1974. The first time since 1974 and even then, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t perfect because they were in the same movie. In the same movie but couldn’t be in the same scenes together.

Law III: Oh, okay. You’re talking The Godfather.

Mousassi: Yeah, but The Godfather Part II. They couldn’t be in the same scenes together.

Law III: Oh, Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro.

Mousassi: They couldn’t be in the same scenes together. Seen the movie, you understand.

Law III: Right.

Mousassi: But in Heat…

Law III: Gotcha, gotcha. Yeah for the first time since ’74 they were together. Okay, but you’ve lost me about how that ties into your work skills—

Mousassi: Full Diner. Night. Al offered to buy Robert a cup of coffee—

Law III: Yes sir, I remember. Great scene—

Mousassi: Anyway, they talk. They talk and what do they talk about? They talk about what they do. They talk about their work skills, their vocation, their trade. What did DeNiro tell Pacino?

Law III: Okay, yeah. He told him he takes down scores.

Mousassi: Yeah, you paid attention. What did Al tell Robert?

Law III: Basically, that he spends his time chasing down guys like him.

Mousassi: And Robert back to Al?

Law III: Ah, Robert told Al he did what he did best and that was to take down scores. He told Al to do what he did best and that was to try to stop guys like him from doing that very thing.

Mousassi: What else did he say? What else did they say?

Law III: I’m going to let you tell me that.

Mousassi: They both agreed. They both agreed that they couldn’t do anything else. Couldn’t do anything else other than what they were doin’. They both agreed that they didn’t much want to do anything else either.

Law III: I remember now, yes sir. Al also told Robert that if he had someone hostage and was a threat to kill that hostage, he wouldn’t have a problem killing him as much as he wouldn’t like doing that.

Mousassi: And if Al had Robert boxed in, DeNiro would kill him. Kill him without hesitation.

Law III: Okay, I can tell you this. I’m no cop and I certain can’t and don’t want to stop guys like you.

Mousassi: Exactly. And don’t be the schmuck who leaves his widow behind. Behind after his luck ran out when he ran. Ran into guys like me. Now, ask me again. Ask me again about what kind of work skills I have.

Law III: Ah, no, no, I think that will suffice, Mr. Mousassi. I thank you for your time, sir. Good luck and God bless you with your new freedom. You paid your debt to society.

Mousassi: But now it’s my turn. My turn for accounts receivable.

He hung up the phone, stood and walked away for his soon-to-be vacated confines.

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1

Intersection of Foundry & Elm Streets

Vine City Neighborhood

Atlanta, GA

3:45 A.M.

Irving ‘Smack’ Black, Jr., ‘membered one of his movie heroes Gordon Geico or Gekko or whatever his name been was great philosophizin’, he ain’t never lied, ‘cause greed was good. Whether it been was Wall Street or insurance, he ain’t never known greed to be anything other than good. Right now, this homeboy was good and greedy and hopefully a little lucky, in additional. Lucky enough not to squeezed the trigger on his .380 semi-automatic. It been chillin’ in his front pants beneath his black hoodie hidin’ under a short brown leather jacket liked bottles of Cristal in a bucket a ice durin’ a Saturday night 70s ‘Blue Lights in the Basement House Party’ in the SWATs. He needed a breathin’ mask after all that been was done in his thinkin’.

He chilled with his back kissin’ the rear fender of a suped up 90s Cadillac and he faced a ol’ school Toyota Corollary. He kept quiet ‘cause this part of Atlanta was so fulled up with drugs and all that came with it that it was always bein’ raided by Red Dog and Narcotics Units of the ATL. They gots good reason to be out in Vine City and so did he. He peeped around the left side of the fender and there it been was: Like fifty yards away at Foundry and Vine Streets, couple a brothas eased down Vine and stood next to a apartment compound and the bent down ‘Stop’ sign. They watchin’ everything and everyone and everybody and everywhere and all them other everys.

His breathin’ raced now. He ain’t never prayed much in his 37 years mainly ‘cause again he was so lucky in his job. Plus, his .380 ain’t a bad god to have at his side whenever he needed a loyalty friend. Ain’t let ‘im down befoe, why tonight gotta be dysfunctionality at all? Dysfunctionality. Yeah, the sistahs gave up the lovin’ to a brotha with a good vocationary. Yeah, they did. He told himself to chill that and checked out the scene down the street. That’s it. Bags of cocaine and thick wads of cash like a sistah in baby-got-back-Apple Bottom jeans! He tasted the Cristal now!

Just as he started to shuffle backward toward the curb for the right side of the Caddy, a black van cruised straight up at him. He ducked and crawled under the Caddy. After the van passed him, his right hand founded the .380 and showed it with a stiff arm. He aimed lyin’ on his stomach tryin’ to spot a better view with another car parked in front of him. Motor oil and gas stanked on the pavement below him, which meant it was on his leather coat! Ain’t that some dysfunctionality chitlins with corn kernels and dirt at the bottom of the pot? Focus, G’!

As the van slowed down near the buy, he heard convo’. A little get-to-know-ya’ small talk from the van ‘foe the real deal jumped off. Now, two brothas in dark clothes popped out the front of the van. Red light, stop; yellow light, caution and slowed down…the green ain’t comin’ fast enough for everybody, anybody, somebody, nobody and all the other bodys includin’ him. Well, that changed like now, a’ight. He strained to slide with the grit and grime and gas and oil under the Caddy. That’s when a little somethin’, somethin’ jumped off with raised voices and gun hammer clickins. Yeah, it was on now.

From his snake belly crawlin’ spot, the van brothas gots the drop on the local homies. One man snagged the big blue canvas bag and the other latched on to the second black canvas bag. And the van boys gots on black masks, likewise. He needed to flow with his plan ‘foe them Red Dogs and Narcs crashed the party. Ain’t no house lights flicked on yet and that was mo’ luck and mo’ good.

Then ta-a-dow! What was goin’ on with a dark four-door sedan stoppin’ at the corner a Graves and Foundry. Might be APD U.C. The driver kicked a little gas and made the short trip up Foundry and stopped in front a the van. Two mo’ dudes in baggy dark clothin’ and black masks announced they presence like Santa Claus and Rudolph at Xmas. ‘Cept they used .9mms aimed at the van boys. Man, this ain’t no good. He didn’t figure on usin’ his own black mask hidden in his inside jacket pocket since he black as night moreover, but with all this noise now, he ain’t got no choice.

He flipped his vision on the scene and into his jacket pocket, the scene, his jacket pocket, the scene, his jacket pocket. Then shots shocked his body like he got shot! His head slammed into the under the carriage of the Caddy. He froze liked a snow cone. Voices panickin’ and like God in the Bible said, “Let there be light” and there been was in a house needin’ Extreme Makeover ‘Hood Edition. He scrambled like eggs in a cast iron pan to his feet. Now, he tripped out so bad he wanted to snag a handful a ol’ cigarette butts layin’ ‘bout and smoke ‘em right there. Heart beatin’ and sweat pourin’…body and mind quittin’, but naw, he ain’t goin’ nowhere without the score, baby.

Mask on and his mind tellin’ him he had heart, he breathed three times, bended down and ran along the parked cars and the concrete curb with the .380’s hammer cocked. From the front of the Caddy, he saw two men down on the ground. The van brothas. The dark sedan dudes pointin’ them shiny black 9 mils at them apartment/stop brothas ‘bout gave ‘im a Fred Sanford, “This is the big one”, heart attack momentumum. They arguin’ somethin’, somethin’ ‘bout, ‘Can’t take the money, fool!’ When he started risin’ up, mo’ shots woked up the dead or alive. This time the apartment/stop brothas, unarmed, they fault, just died. Them dark sedan dudes tripped out now. They runnin’ for they sedan when mo’ lights turned the night into a Smoky the Bear fire.

Seconds after that and he ran along that curb behind cars so close they right across from him now, he down low and aimed again when mo’ shots from some brothas on his side of the street tap danced the road and the dark sedan. Funny thing was though he ain’t heard no laughin’, the dark sedan dudes ain’t fired back in self-defensive. All they done was run to the sedan with both bags in hand. Then mo’ shots breaked some of the sedan’s windows. The driver dropped his bag as the sedan rolled through the shootin’. Footsteps pounded the sidewalk for him and he hated to do it, but he ducked under another car and played dead. Those feet ran passed and behind him. Screamin’, shoutin’, guns firin’, feet runnin’, tires squealin’. Chaos, man. Again, through that snake belly spot, the brothas who done did the shootin’ and runnin’ ran across the road and dragged the two apartment/stop brothas down Elm Street and outta sight. It was now or never, Irving.

He checked the area everywhere and all those other everys. Saw the black canvas bag ‘bout three feet in front of ‘im. The blue bag just sat next to the two dead van brothas. Too far away and now mo’ sirens, mo’ sirens, mo’ sirens, mo’ sirens. He dove for the bag that was closest. He heard mo’ gunshots around the corner. Luckily for him, he ain’t parked around that corner. He fastwalked west on Foundry and hung a quick left on Sunset Avenue. That’s where he parked his tricked out green Mazda Hatchback 323 that would make them West Coast Customs and Pimp My Ride TV shows proud. His imagination seen cops and ambulance on the scene now. The gunshots stopped. So did the screamin’, shoutin’, runnin’ and squealin’. Peace, man.

When he unlocked his Mazda, he thew the bag on the passenger front seat. Still hyped all over, he lost the temptation not to check inside. Was it been the drugs or the money? Unzipped the black bag, either one was a solid, and hello Benjamins! He laughed lookin’ around as he did. This was easier than he ever thought it could been was. It all been a part of his philosophizin’ strategically that went down a somethin’, somethin’ liked this: Firstly, ‘Done did unto others befoe they done did unto himself’. Secondarily, ‘Life helped them who then helped themselves’. Thirdarily, and the bestest one, ‘Revenge was a dish bestest served by takin’ everything from anyone, everyone, someone but not no one 365/24/7’. Yeah, baby!

***

In the midst of his merriment, someone watched him through a camera lens and snapped his photograph. Then, cross hairs sized him up when he cranked the Hatchback’s engine and calmly slipped unnoticed into the distant crying and agonizing night.