Dirty Work Part 1 Page 5

  Brandy continued driving while Eshon continued to sing different songs.

  ***

  The girls came out of the H&M store clutching several shopping bags. It was the fifth store they had been to on 125th Street. They felt like queens as they tried on different outfits and paid cash for the best. One Hundred Twenty-Fifth was always active and fun. They had a girls’ day out, laughing and clowning around, piquing the fellows they came across. Three beautiful girls smiling and dressed nicely—they were a girl group in the public.

  After they were done shopping, the girls wanted to show off their new clothes right away and do it someplace crowded. They thought about the park—St. Nicholas Park. It was late afternoon and the perfect time to stunt and shine. So, they hurried back to the buildings, changed clothes, did make-up and hair, and then climbed back into Brandy’s old gray Chevrolet Malibu and headed toward the park.

  ***

  St. Nicholas Park was crowded with sweaty Negros playing a pickup game while girlfriends and admiring ladies watched from the sidelines. The crowd was screaming and playing children occupied the playgrounds while their parents sat nearby and talked amongst themselves.

  There was a slight breeze in the park, and it was a welcoming one for those exhausting themselves with activity.

  But the place to be was where the men played chess. Some of the smartest people in the city came to play on the stone chess tables in the park. There would be crowds of people around, watching move for move. It sometimes looked like a basketball tournament was happening, or like observers quietly witnessing a golf tournament. Like golf, chess was a quiet game, and lots of money was involved.

  Eshon and her girls strutted into the park and made their way toward the playground, where the men were seated playing chess at the stone tables.

  Immediately, the girls received catcalls and lingering stares. They showed off skin and cleavage, but not too much, wanting to leave something to the imagination. Their sneakers were Nikes, white and clean. Their hair was long and silky, even if some of them were wearing weaves. But they all felt good and sexy. The boys were watching them, hungry for their attention, and they ate it up like it was a good scoop of ice cream on a hot summer day.

  From a short distance, Eshon saw Kid in his wheelchair, playing a game. He looked pensive. The men around were all ages, and a few were drinking jasmine tea and eating muffins made by Mr. Harry Walker, a regular at the park. Kid was playing against a guy with a white beard reminiscent of Santa Claus. He was mostly jolly and cheery—when he wasn’t losing—and he was a great player. The men were playing for a hundred dollars a game, and already The Kid had won four hundred dollars.

  Eshon and her girls approached.

  Kid was always focused on his games, scrutinizing every move and continuing to win, but there was one person that could distract him from an intense match, and that person was Jessica. When he saw her standing nearby, looking sexy in a white tennis skirt and sleeveless shirt, his concentration broke. He looked at her and smiled far and wide. He had a serious crush on the L.A. native.

  “You know he likes you, girl,” Eshon whispered in Jessica’s ear.

  “And what I’m supposed to do with a cripple?”

  “You can get creative,” Eshon quipped.

  “Ha-ha, you funny, bitch. You take him then.”

  “I want his brother. You know that.”

  “And I want a man that can walk, not some crippled hombre with dead legs and a dead dick,” Jessica said seriously.

  “You foul, Jessica.”

  “No, you foul, muchacha. I know what I like, and that’s a hombre that can please me good. Why we here anyway? I wanna see some real niggas in this park.”

  “Do you then,” Eshon said, defeated.

  Brandy just stood to the side, listening to them talk and not bothering to put in her two cents.

  Kid was happy that his dream girl Jessica was finally watching him play a game. Now he had to show off for her and win another one. He waved her way, a simple hi, but she didn’t wave back. She stood there, deadpan and not interested in men playing chess.

  Kid didn’t take any offense at it. He put his focus back into playing his game. He was thinking five to six moves ahead.

  Before he knew it, Jessica had walked away. Brandy too.

  Eshon remained behind. She found chess somewhat interesting. Besides, she didn’t mind getting closer to Kip’s brother. Maybe he could tell her where he was today.

  Half an hour later, Kid won the match by controlling the center of the board. It was a strategy that consisted of placing pieces so they could attack the central four squares. He also had his bishop controlling the center from afar. His opponent wasn’t happy, but he paid Kid the hundred dollars he owed. Kid was undefeated. He did a spin in his wheelchair and boasted.

  Eshon laughed. He couldn’t walk, but he had an upbeat attitude.

  “I want a rematch. Make it two hundred this time,” the white-bearded man said.

  “One moment.” Kid wheeled himself from the table and rolled toward Eshon. “Hey, where’s your friend?” he asked, speaking about Jessica.

  “She went to the basketball courts.”

  “Oh, I guess the game became too intense for her, huh?” he joked.

  Eshon laughed. “I guess so. But you are nice with them chess pieces. How long did it take for you to play like that?”

  “It’s natural, I guess. The game’s just in me.”

  “I see that. You’re smart.”

  Kid shrugged.

  Eshon saw that he was a cute guy—smart, humorous and very charming. His only fault was his handicap. She was itching to ask him about Kip.

  Kid knew how bad she had it for his older brother. It was hard for her to hide it. He wasn’t a fool. The main reason she hung around to watch him play was that she wanted to know about Kip. Besides the few words they exchanged, their conversation was mostly dry. Meanwhile, Kid’s attention and heart were on Jessica, if she ever gave him the time of day.

  “You’re looking for my brother, right?” he asked.

  “Is he around?”

  “Haven’t seen him since this morning. I think he had to take care of some business on Long Island.”

  “Oh,” Eshon uttered, looking disappointed.

  “You really like him, don’t you?”

  “I’m in love with him. Does he talk about me?”

  “I hated that y’all two broke up. Y’all were really good together.”

  His comment made her smile. If he was avoiding her question, she couldn’t tell. “He takes me for granted.”

  “He takes everyone for granted. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I’d do anything for him, and he knows it. I don’t want to lose him.”

  “You won’t.” Kid said it like he could foretell the future. “Hey, let’s do each other a favor.”

  She smiled. “And what’s that?”

  “You put in a good word for me with Jessica, and hook me up, and I’ll make sure to speak highly of you to my brother.”

  Eshon smiled down at Kid and extended her right hand. “Deal!” She loved his positive attitude. Jessica was missing out by not giving him a chance.

  Seven

  Kip navigated his Nissan Quest minivan through the winding roads of Long Island, New York. He entered the Great Neck area, an affluent neighborhood in northern Long Island where both sides of the street were lined with pricey homes and nice cars. The neighborhood was posh and majority white, and Kip never felt too comfortable in it.

  Papa John rode shotgun, acting as his support, and the two men scoped out the homes with admiration as they made their way toward Maserati Meek’s place two miles down the road.

  “These fuckin’ people live too good,” Papa John said.

  “They do.”

  “What you think it would feel like living out here?”

  Kip chortled. “Like these white people out here would accept us into their community. We too hood for these crackers.”

  “It would definitely be a step up for us.”

  “I love Harlem.”

  “I do too, but think about the pussy we would get wit’ a crib like one of these.”

  “You think wit’ your dick too much, Papa John.”

  “I think like a nigga that loves to bust a nut. Like you wouldn’t want to fuck a bitch in a million-dollar home.”

  Kip laughed and shook his head. Leave it to Papa John to soothe the tension with his vulgar humor.

  They pulled up to a moderate-sized home with a curved driveway on Middle Neck Road. They were familiar with the address. Kip parked behind two red Ferrari 458s, and he and Papa John climbed out of the minivan, in awe of the sleek, exotic cars.

  “Shit!” Papa John said, running his hand across the hood of the car as he passed it by. “Maserati Meek definitely knows how to live it up. Imagine it, Kip—getting your dick sucked in one of these things while doin’ a hundred miles an hour on the highway.”

  “Nigga, you better have control first.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna have control, over the car and my bitch. But I like this. Damn! You think he would let me take it for a test drive?”

  “We’re here on business, Papa,” Kip reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah, business . . . then pleasure.”

  The two men walked toward the solid mahogany double doors with rain glass. The property was tastefully decorated with trimmed shrubberies and blossoming flowers, surveillance cameras everywhere.

  Kip pushed the doorbell, and they waited. In Kip’s hand was a bag full of goodies—the stolen watches and jewelry from the basketball players. The contents inside weighed the bag down, so Kip was sure he would get a good price for everything from Maserati Meek.

  Soon, the doors opened
, and standing in front of the men was one of Meek’s goons. The man recognized the Harlem thugs, but that didn’t stop him from thoroughly searching them in the large foyer for any weapons. Once cleared, the goon stepped aside and allowed them farther into the home. From the foyer, they entered a great room dominated by a huge, honed, black granite-topped island. The room doubled as a kitchen and living room.

  Maserati Meek was in the kitchen, cooking. He turned around and greeted Kip and Papa John happily. “My friends, once again, I welcome you to my paradise.”

  From the smell in the kitchen, it seemed like he was a good cook. Whatever he had brewing, it enticed Kip and Papa John’s nostrils.

  Maserati Meek was all smiles and animated, like a child with ADHD. Dressed in beige shorts exposing his hairy legs, a T-shirt, and a white apron, he walked toward the two men like he was ready to go outside and play. He hugged them, but they were standoffish to his warm greeting. It was awkward. But he was weird.

  Maserati Meek’s eyes moved down to the bag in Kip’s hand. He already had an idea what was inside. “You brought gifts for me, eh, my friend?”

  “Came here to do some business,” Kip said.

  “You guys, you hungry? You stay for dinner? You want a taste of some good Middle Eastern chow?”

  “Not hungry,” Kip replied nonchalantly.

  “You sure? I’m making some smoking baba ghanoush with oil-cured black olives. It’s a very tasty dish. It is de shit, my friend.”

  “Smoking baba ghan-what?” Kip couldn’t even pronounce it, and he definitely didn’t have any desire to taste it. He just wanted to show Maserati Meek the jewelry, make a deal, and leave.

  Though Maserati Meek was animated and friendly toward the two of them, Kip was well aware of his notorious reputation that carried from state to state. Behind that smile and the hospitality, he was a violent, murderous drug kingpin. His iron fists ruled from the Tri-State to Detroit, Baltimore, and Chicago, and had become a huge blip on the FBI’s radar. His organization was under federal investigation, but there wasn’t enough evidence to build a case yet.

  “We’ll pass this time,” Kip said coolly.

  Maserati Meek pivoted and went back to the large stove to tend to his meal.

  Kip and Papa John stood in the kitchen knowing it wasn’t wise to rush the man into conducting business.

  ***

  Maserati Meek, born Akar Mudada, could be eccentric at times, but he was fair and he was smart. Business was in his blood, and so was bloodshed and carnage. His parents were from Egypt, and his family was no stranger to aggression, oppression, and death. When he was ten, his uncles were killed by drone attacks. They were blown to pieces in the bunker they’d taken refuge inside. Maserati Meek had witnessed the family remove body after body after the attack. Nearly half a dozen dead and bloody men were laid out on the rubble for him to see. They said that his uncles were linked to Al-Qaeda.

  Maserati Meek was a handsome, tall man with shiny, long black hair that he sported in different styles from time to time, either pulled back into a bun, cornrows, or two braids. He had dark skin and his accent was slightly urban, sometimes Black-ish. He emulated the urban culture, fell in love with the lifestyle and the people.

  This was a punch in the face to his parents, who believed in the unity of their own people and race. Maserati Meek contradicted their beliefs, indulging himself in the black lifestyle and in a life of crime.

  He ran his criminal organization like a terrorist. He had committed soldiers who were ready to die for what they believed in—his organization and never-ending praise to Allah. When his organization went to war with another, it was like Iraq, Beirut, or Afghanistan on an urban street with deadly bombings and AK-47 gunfire. Though most of his family had disowned him, Maserati Meek continued to send lots of money back home to his family in Egypt to help support their terrorist regimes, and for food and a decent living.

  He had come to America on a work visa from his employer when he was nineteen years old. He was a gifted engineer and computer programmer who had caught the attention of a fledgling software company called Sillicus, which was willing to sponsor him. He did extraordinary work for Sillicus until he became infatuated with the ghetto lifestyle. His attitude started to change, and his career in engineering and software design began to suffer.

  It didn’t take long before he started dabbling in the drug world. He covertly helped fund several kilos of cocaine for a Texas crew he’d befriended. He rose fast in the underworld, and twelve years later, he was the boss.

  Maserati Meek farmed out murder contracts to Kip and his crew when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty or involve his organization. Kip had a success rate of 100 percent, and a level of trust had been built between the two men.

  ***

  “Sit and let’s talk,” Meek said finally. “I’m ready to see what my two players got for me today . . . something nice, I know.”

  The two men sat at the island. Kip removed the contents from the bag and spread it across the island. Everything gleamed brightly. It all looked very expensive—diamonds, gold, and platinum, a black man’s glory.

  Maserati Meek stared at the jewelry and the watches and he lit up like a lightbulb. “Whoa! Whoa! We done hit payday, I see,” he exclaimed. “Damn, muthafuckas, I love it already.”

  “Everything you see here is from NBA ballplayers,” Kip informed him.

  “Eh, that thing on the news, that was you and your crew?”

  Kip nodded proudly.

  “I’m impressed, my friend. I am.”

  He picked up the Rolex and inspected it. Off the bat, he knew the worth of the watch. He loved the fact that the jewelry in his kitchen belonged to ballplayers. There was a certain bravado in owning jewelry stolen from NBA players.

  “I want it all,” he proclaimed loudly. “Yes, I love it! Oh, these muthafuckas definitely had good taste.” He threw on one of the platinum chains and struck a pose in front of his men standing in the kitchen.

  Kip and Papa John smiled widely. They could see the dollar signs dancing around in the air and falling all around them, drenching them with a shitload of money.

  “I’m gonna give the earrings to my girl, and this watch, I’m gonna keep this watch for myself.” Maserati Meek so happened to pick up Jason Miller’s diamond-encrusted watch for himself.

  “Big Sean and Jay P, y’all niggas, c’mere. Let’s enjoy this together.” Maserati Meek called two of his goons to the kitchen island covered with jewelry.

  They stepped toward the jewelry with an expressionless look.

  Meek said, “Pick something out for yourselves.”

  Their stone-faced looks turned into bright and wide smiles. Jay P picked out the gold Rolex, and Big Sean helped himself to a big-faced diamond watch, both costing sixty grand apiece.

  “What we owe you, my niggas?” Maserati Meek asked.

  No one was offended by his use of the word nigga, which he used frequently, and they didn’t care. He was the boss. You didn’t challenge Maserati Meek.

  Kip did the math in his head and came to a price. “Two hundred K,” he threw out there, thinking everything had to be in the 1.5 million mark. He felt that two hundred thousand was a fair price for it all.

  Maserati Meek nodded. “Okay.”

  Kip and Papa John smiled. It was payday.

  Meek instructed one of his men to get the cash. “Can we talk alone?” he asked Kip.

  Kip nodded. They made their way onto the patio in the backyard overlooking the in-ground pool.

  Maserati Meek lit a cigar and took a few pulls. The pool held his gaze. He puffed out smoke and without looking at Kip, he said, “I need another job done.”

  “Who, and how soon?”

  Maserati Meek kept his gaze fixed on the calm water in the pool as he smoked his cigar. He then answered, “The contract is on Big Sean, and I need this done right away.”

  If Kip was shocked, he didn’t show it. He remained dispassionate and continued to listen. He had just witnessed Maserati Meek give Big Sean a diamond watch. Kip wasn’t one to ask any questions. He needed the work. He needed the cash to keep coming in.

  “I’ll pay twenty large for the contract.”

  “I can’t do it for anything less than fifty grand,” Kip counter-offered. “My peoples gotta eat too.”

  Maserati Meek nodded in agreement to the fifty grand. It was a deal. “When it’s done, I want the watch removed from his body. Keep it for yourself as a bonus, eh, my friend.”