Dirty Work Part 1 Read online

  Dirty Work

  Part One

  by

  Erica Hilton

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dirty Work - Part One. Copyright © 2017 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, [email protected].

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909509

  ISBN-13: 978-1620780862

  First Edition: September 2017

  Printed in Canada

  BOOKS BY ERICA HILTON

  10 Crack Commandments

  Bad Girl Blvd

  Bad Girl Blvd 2

  Bad Girl Blvd 3

  The Diamond Syndicate

  Dirty Little Angel

  Dirty Money Honey

  Wifey: From Mistress to Wifey (Part 1)

  Wifey: I Am Wifey (Part 2)

  Dirty Work (Part 1)

  Dirty Work (Part 2)

  Prologue

  ESPN played on the 32-inch flat-screen in the bedroom, and Stephen A. Smith and Skip Bayless could be heard commentating on tonight’s basketball game on First Take. The Nets were playing the Atlanta Hawks at the Barclays Center in downtown Brooklyn. Both men were going back and forth, expressing their outlook on tonight’s game, the playoffs looming. The Nets were potential playoff contenders, but the Hawks were a powerful team to beat, especially with Jeff Teague having the best season of his career. Skip Bayless mentioned Nets player Jason Miller, a talented small forward from Georgetown who was dominating the game with his three-pointers and strong inside game. He was the leading scorer on the Nets. Bayless compared Miller to Ray Allen, another fierce three-point shooter. Smith had his doubts about Miller, criticizing his lack of defense. They also mentioned the four-year multi-million-dollar deal he had recently signed with the Nets, making him one of the wealthiest players in the NBA.

  The noise from the television woke up Kip Kane. Kip stretched and yawned and lifted himself from his bed. He was shirtless, his chiseled physique covered with tattoos and battle scars. He stared at ESPN and listened to Smith and Bayless talk about Jason Miller’s multi-million-dollar contract with the Nets. It was a lot of money—twenty-five million guaranteed, and he was expected to earn ninety-five million dollars.

  “Ninety-five million! Shit!” Kip muttered to himself. A hood nigga from Brooklyn earning that much money to dribble and dunk a ball? Kip felt he was in the wrong profession.

  He stood up and went to the bedroom window. The morning sunlight percolated through, indicating another sunny spring day. He pulled back the blinds and gazed at his city. Harlem was alive this morning, buzzing with people, cars, and his beloved projects—Manhattanville Houses in West Harlem, between Broadway and Amsterdam. From his eleventh-floor window, he had a picturesque view of the city that stretched from Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.

  Kip wiped the cold from his eyes. He’d heard what he needed to hear, so he turned off the television. He lit a Black & Mild, picked up his cell phone, and sat at the foot of his bed. It was eleven a.m. There was a lot to do today. It was time to get that money.

  He puffed on the Black as he dialed a number. It rang three times until someone picked up. “Where y’all niggas at?” he asked.

  “We on the block,” Devon said.

  “A’ight, come get a nigga by noon.”

  “A’ight.”

  Kip tossed his cell phone on the bed and stood up. He walked toward the closet mirror and gazed at himself. He had a rough image, but he was handsome. He was twenty-two years old with a low-cut Caesar, his waves were always spinning, and he had a growing mustache. He had dark skin with an athletic build, and his eyes were cold—it was like he had a blizzard in his spirit. He had seen a lot and been through a lot in life.

  Kip Kane saw himself as a survivor. Harlem was a battleground, and he was a warrior—a thoroughbred from the mean streets. He had a lot of pressure on his young shoulders, but he refused to be weighed down by poverty and lack of finances. Kip was the moneymaker in his family—if he could call it a family. He only had two people he truly cared for in his life: his younger brother Kid, who sometimes went by “The Kid,” and Rhonda, his Nana, who was sixty-five years old and living comfortably in a retirement community upstate. Her apartment came with all the amenities. Nana had her groceries brought to her door three times a week, and staff that came to clean her apartment twice a week. Kip’s Nana didn’t have to lift a finger. Everything had been taken care of for her, thanks to Kip.

  Kip felt that he owed her a lot. She had taken him and his little brother in from abusive foster homes to a real home when he was ten and Kid was seven. She was a single, childless woman in her early fifties at the time. She took care of the boys, fed them, clothed them, and became a grandmother to them. Kip thought the world of her, but Kid thought differently. He wasn’t as loving toward Nana as Kip was and always believed she was a fraud, despite what she had done for them.

  Kip walked out of his bedroom, moved down the hallway, and knocked on the bedroom door, the master bedroom. He didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door and marched into his little brother’s room. Kid was lying in bed and absorbed in a game of chess on his tablet. He was beating the computer.

  Kip smiled at his little brother and said, “You gonna stay in here and play video games or enjoy the day?”

  “Play a game with me.”

  “You know I don’t play like you.”

  “I can teach you.”

  “Nah, chess is your thing, little brother, not mine. I move real-life pawns on these streets, and I’m the king.” Kip beat his chest. “You goin’ down to the park?”

  “Yeah. You got your hustle, and I got mine.”

  Kip smiled. “No doubt, little brother.”

  Kid ended his game and decided to get dressed. He would need his brother’s help. Kip moved Kid’s wheelchair closer to the bed, and then he helped him dress for the day.

  It was eighty degrees outside, so Kid decided on some black cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and his fresh white Nikes. He was a nineteen-year-old whiz kid, paralyzed from the waist down since he was eleven.

  One day, Kid was riding on the handlebars of Kip’s BMX bicycle, and the two were horsing around on a construction site, executing tricks and jumping dirt hills like daredevils.

  Kip tried to jump a large dirt hill with Kid on the handlebars. He pedaled feverishly, wanting to go airborne to show off for those watching. But he lost his footing and lost control of the bicycle, which abruptly veered right. Kid went flying off the handlebars and tumbled down some nearby concrete stairs, severely injuring his spine. The doctors told him that there was a 99.9 percent chance that he would never walk again. He had become a paraplegic.

  Kip felt super guilty and promised to help his brother walk again, or when possible, get him some of the best help and physical therapy money could buy when he was old enough and able. Until then, Kip always stayed glued by Kid’s side. Whatever or whenever Kid needed him, he was there.

  Being wheelchair-bound didn’t stop Kid’s enjoyment of life and doing what he loved, chess. Video games were his second love. He spent most of his days in the parks playing chess, and he became the best in the city and the most talked about in the Tri-State area. He was a vibrant chess player, and competitors would travel from far and wide to challenge him to a game. So far, he was undefeated.

  Kip rolled his brother, dressed and looking fresh in a pair of
gold-rimmed bifocals, into the hallway.

  “You want breakfast?” Kip asked him.

  “Nah, I’m not really hungry.”

  “You sure? You know I can make you some grits and eggs real quick.”

  “I’m good, bro. I just want to get out and about.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “Kip, I’m nineteen. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to babysit or escort me everywhere. I can handle myself.”

  “A’ight.”

  Kid rolled himself toward the front door and gave his brother the deuces sign before leaving.

  Kip watched his brother exit the apartment. Everything in the building was wheelchair accessible. His little brother was growing up fast and becoming independent. Kip wanted to do more for him. He wanted him to walk again. It had been eight years but still no change. The physical therapy treatments he was paying for at one of the top medical facilities in New York City weren’t effective. But he wasn’t going to stop trying. He was determined and positive that one day Kid would walk again.

  Their apartment was well furnished with costly sofas and big fluffy chairs. It was comfortable and spacious. It was the perfect bachelor’s pad for the brothers with a 60-inch smart TV in the living room, a high-end stereo system, and tall surround-sound speakers situated throughout the apartment, along with countless consoles and video games everywhere. It was Kid’s domain—video games and online gaming—especially when it came to playing Minecraft.

  Kip glanced at the time. It was already eleven thirty. He needed to get dressed and start his day. He was a busy man trying to make his cream on the streets or from the streets. His illicit hustle was a full-time job. He went into his bedroom to prepare himself. His goons would be there soon.

  Kip was a monster on the streets. He had to walk out of his building wearing the right gear. It was all about his image, yes, but it was also about implementing the perfect plan to get money by any means necessary. He had come a long way from being a nobody to a feared and respected man in Harlem.

  One

  The corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 133rd Street was flourishing with springtime activity. Traffic flowed back and forth, with bodegas and the mom-and-pop shops lining the avenue open for business. Don Pedro Albizu Campos School on the corner was filled with students and teachers, and with summer break approaching, the young girls were out in their short skirts, short shorts, and halter tops, their pretty sneakers hammering the urban pavement from block to block. Some of the best eye candy in the city came from Manhattanville Houses.

  In the midst of the activity, a black Ford Expedition on 22-inch chrome rims double-parked in front of the towering project building on 133rd Street. The truck was blaring Jay Z’s “Dead Presidents,” and the two occupants in the front seats nodded to the beat, mouthing the song. They shared a burning blunt while waiting for Kip to exit the building.

  Devon looked ominous behind the wheel of the Expedition in his dark army fatigues and his small Afro. His eyes shifted everywhere as he sat parked on the block, smoking weed in public. He scanned potential victims closely and from afar. Everyone was a target to him. He didn’t care who they were or who they were connected to. It was a dog-eat-dog world in Harlem and everywhere else, and he was the bigger dog with the sharper teeth, more bite than bark. His eyes were always threatening.

  Devon had dark skin and a yuck mouth, and everyone, especially the girls, was afraid of him. They called him “Devil” behind his back. Twenty-four and a mental case, he was as grimy as they came in Harlem. He had grown up eating out of trash cans to survive. His mother would buy drugs instead of food with the welfare checks and whatever cash she earned selling sex. Devon’s father had abandoned them since birth. Though Devon would see his deadbeat dad in the neighborhood, his pops had never claimed him or ever said a word to him.

  Growing up, Devon’s peers made fun of him, poked at him, and kicked him when he was down. Society was a cruel place, so Devon decided to become an even crueler man. He was a man with dirty fingernails, ashy skin, and dirty clothes, but his character was a lot filthier. He and his friends made money from robberies, burglaries, and stick-ups.

  Devon took a pull from the weed and passed it to Papa John in the passenger’s seat. Papa John took a long pull and exhaled. He sat back and chilled. The kush had him feeling nice. His eyes were faded while waiting for Kip to come down from his apartment.

  Papa John was nineteen and Kip’s right-hand man. He had also grown up in a single-parent household. His father Darryl, a renowned detective at the 75th Precinct, had raised him. Darryl was forty-nine years old with a twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, and though he was a detective, he had no clue about his son’s illicit activities in the streets.

  Papa John had no recollection of his mother. There were only pictures of her around the house, and his father spoke about her vaguely. When he was just two years old, Papa John’s mother left the family and ran off with his father’s best friend Anthony. The two had fled Harlem and headed south to Miami, but they never made it. Anthony had fallen asleep behind the wheel, and they both were killed instantly on I-95.

  Papa John was the opposite of Devon. Where Devon was the critter of the crew, Papa John and Kip were the smooth-talking, handsome bad boys in the neighborhood. Papa John was meticulous about his wardrobe and his appearance. He had brown skin with dark, soft, curly hair that he kept cut low and the brightest brown eyes. He also carried a small scar on his right cheek courtesy of a nightclub brawl several years earlier. He hadn’t seen it coming but felt the razor peel his skin back like a banana, coating his face with blood. The culprit was a jealous boyfriend who attacked because Papa John was fucking his girlfriend.

  Papa John took a few more pulls from the blunt and handed it back to Devon. Just then his eyes became hooked on a young cutie walking across the street. She was light-skinned with long black hair, a small waist, and thick thighs underneath a short skirt. She was definitely his type. He tapped Devon and pointed her out. “That’s nice right there,” he said.

  Devon smiled.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Papa John catcalled her way. “How you doin’ today?”

  She glanced his way and kept things moving, not looking interested in what he had to say. In fact, she had an attitude. Papa John had never seen her around before, so she was probably new to the neighborhood. He loved new things, especially the ladies.

  “You can’t speak, beautiful?” he continued.

  Ignoring him completely, she walked like she had somewhere important to be.

  Papa John was mesmerized by her curvy physique, and when she walked by, his eyes stayed glued to her butt. It was all put together perfectly.

  “Damn, beautiful, you’re definitely workin’ that body,” he hollered. “Can I have a picture of you so I can show Santa what I want for Christmas?”

  Devon laughed.

  Papa John was relentless. If he didn’t get her attention today, he would try tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Eventually, he would get what he wanted. He was funny and cute. He was a ladies’ man. The hood had named John “Papa John” because he was promiscuous with the ladies. He had six kids with six baby mamas at his young age, and all of the women were gorgeous and completely in love with him. Word around the hood was that Papa John carried a ten-inch penis and was adept at using it. Ever since his mother walked out on him when he was a baby, he had “mommy issues.” He couldn’t get close to women, so he couldn’t stay in relationships.

  As the woman walked by, Papa John sat back, taking her in. Then he muttered, “What the fuck is takin’ Kip so long?”

  “Y’all pretty boys always take forever getting dressed,” Devon said.

  “It’s called flavor, nigga. You should try it out once in a while.”

  “Fuck you, nigga!”

  “You still my nigga, D. We gonna get you some pussy tonight.”

  “I’m no charity fuckin’ case, Papa John. I get mine.”

  “I know you
do. How much the bitch charge by the hour?”

  “Your mama never charges me. She gets down on her knees for free.”

  Papa John’s easygoing attitude quickly transitioned into anger. He frowned at his friend. “Nigga, don’t ever talk about Mama!” He was serious.

  “What? I hit a sore spot?”

  “Just don’t talk about her.”

  “A’ight, nigga. My bad,” Devon apologized feebly.

  Papa John put the blunt to his lips and inhaled. He continued to frown. “Where is this nigga Kip?”

  ***

  Kip stepped out of the lobby looking like a superstar. He was dressed in beige cargo shorts and a white V-neck T-shirt, highlighting his athletic body and showing off his long white gold chain and diamond encrusted TEC-9 pendant, along with his white-and-blue Jordans fresh out of the box. His waves were spinning in the sunlight as he trotted toward his homeboys in the Expedition. He was the prince of the projects—well known and well liked by many, but not by all. He was an Adonis and a bad boy mixed into one.

  Kip moved with authority and pride in the Harlem projects. He could see Devon and Papa John in the truck smoking weed. He frowned at their stupidity. Today was a special day, or it was going to be a special night—and his crew was on board wholeheartedly. They were about their money, and if tonight’s score went down as planned, then they would come off like kings swimming in the money pit.

  Kip’s chain swung as he walked—he had a tiger’s stride in the concrete jungle. As he approached the truck, he was greeted by two thots with long weaves, wearing tight jeans, tight shirts that accentuated their balloon tits, and bright smiles aimed his way.

  “Hey, Kip,” the girls greeted simultaneously.

  “Hey,” he replied nonchalantly.

  “Kip, you comin’ to the party tonight?” Judy asked.

  “What party?”

  “We can make it a party, Kip,” Cindy chimed in with an inviting smile. “But we gonna do our thang at Cream tonight, and we want you there.”