Laugh Now

by Rahiem Brooks

  At seven-thirty p.m., Kareem met Marquis and Dre at the Petrie Court Café. The Metropolitan Museum was the perfect venue for them to draw a work of art to thwart McKenzey’s wrath. Kareem informed them of his latest events, minus the detail about Toi’s infidelity. He didn’t feel like hearing any bullshit, as he laid down the new law.

  “We have to cut our ties with anyone out of our circle, and this is the circle. Anyone else could be a McKenzey operative.” Kareem let that sink in, and then said, “You’re flings, too.”

  “Nigga are you crazy?” Dre asked, foolishly. Of all the things that Kareem said, all he was pressed about was pussy. “Leah is my main side bitch. There is no way that I am going to cut her off. She ain’t working for that fag.”

  “We do not know that.” Marquis said, quickly. He wasn’t trying to hear shit.

  “I’ve carried us this far, Dre, with wise decision making, and I have not dropped the ball yet.”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” Kareem said, warning him.

  “She goes, period!” That was Marquis.

  “Mind your fucking business. Ain’t a period. Both you mutha-fucka’s think that you can talk to me any kind of way.” Kareem raised his eyebrows and his jaw dropped, obviously insulted. He said nothing for a moment. After swallowing a gulp of water, he leaned back in his seat and tented his hands behind his head. “There are rules to this game and the agent is heavily favored to get the win. I knew telling you about my arrest and McKenzey’s arrival into the future would cause you to panic a little and realize that we needed to switch the game up to adjust to this development.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ baby him, Reem,” Marquis said. “He is letting pussy dictate his decision making. He can get down with the rules of this operation, or he can get the fuck out.”

  Marquis let that sink in, and then said, “At his own risk.” “Pussy you threatening me?”

  “Dawg, sit the fuck down and act like the fuck you know.”

  Marquis stood and made it clear that Dre was not to be fooled by his smooth aura.

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit, with you nigga’s. I’m outta here.”

  “He’s right, Dre. You letting pussy—”

  “Oh, so you’re taking his side. Just how your father and mother takes your side all the time.”

  “This ain’t about sides,” Marquis said.

  “You sound like a real bitch. What the fuck are you talking about?” Kareem asked. “You’re a grown ass fucking man.”

  The last statement to Dre’s back, as he walked out the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 55

  A week later, Dre rolled down the driver’s window as he drove up the Schuylkill Expressway from his new Southwest Philadelphia secret bachelor pad. He and Chino were on their way to meet Ice. The night air seeped through the window and created a whistling sound as he sped 85 mph. The two street pharmacists rode in silence inside of a rented Silhouette mini- van.

  Dre realized that he was wrong for walking out of that restaurant. He was equally wrong for letting seven whole days pass without kissing Kareem’s ass with apologies. He was worried about Kareem, even though, he knew that Kareem was very capable of taking care of himself. Dre was obstinate, and he hated when his brother proved to be smarter than him. He now had to fend for himself. Kareem helped him think. He had already sold enough crack cocaine to get the ten-year minimum mandatory sentence. No need to stop now, he thought.

  He reached 17th and Jefferson Streets and parked. Chino moved to the back seat, so that Ice could hop into the front. Ice passed a blunt to Chino. Dre did not smoke. Dre was not easily persuaded, so he never succumbed to the smoking frenzy. He couldn’t adhere to his brother’s wise advice, so peer pressure didn’t fly either.

  When Chino slammed the door shut, he asked, “Dre, whose briefcase is this back here.” He held the case in the air.

  “Leah’s,” he responded, confidently, but he looked at the case puzzled that she had forgotten it. He knew women played silly games, and felt that Leah left the case for Tasha to find. He was sure that Leah was not a McKenzey operative, but she was no less a monkey wrench. This had been the second thing that she left in his car. A hotel receipt with all of her personal data on it was the first.

  After negotiating a deal for Ice to cop the first batch of dope from Dre, the men had stepped out the Silhouette to have a tester sample the pure Colombian product. Dre had Ice under the impression that he had Chino under his wing and that Chino had ripped off another drug dealer for the product. By Ice’s estimation, if he had someone else’s dope that was good and they had nothing: win-win.

  The tester jogged into the crack house as happy as a pedophile in a school yard. All of the other feigns reacted, scattering about frantically, as they all knew the deal.

  Suddenly, Dre fell to the ground and crawled under an abandoned car parked behind the minivan. The drive-by shooter’s gun spat out rounds rapidly. Bullets ricocheted and penetrated the minivan in groups, not allowing room for a shoot-out.

  Ice was pissed.

  Dre was pissed.

  The weapons used had a firing rate resembling a Cobra 12 gauge, viciously given the ghetto moniker, the “street sweeper.”

  Ice crawled to an abandoned house, narrowly escaping with a grazed shoulder. Crack-heads and corner boys dove to the ground and recited their Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s.

  Twenty seconds passed, and the power punch of the Cobra continued to spray gravel up under the car. The gunmen were not marksmen and the night darkness did not prove the best light. Yet, the bullets continued to pour. Dre lay there, wondering how long he would survive before the gunmen noticed that they were not being fired upon, get out of their vehicle, and start shooting directly at their targets.

  The firing ceased when the car tires were heard racing off. The tires kicked shells under the car assaulting Dre. Good thing that they were not shot from a gun.

  Dre pulled himself from under the car and found his orange Akademik sweat suit stained with oil and dirt. All of the Silhouette’s windows were gone and the panels were severely penetrated. His body hurt badly, but Chino was in worse shape.

  Chino held one hand on his chest and the other hand wrapped around his gun. He mouthed, “Dre, help me.” He had been shot in the throat.

  CHAPTER 56

  Dre stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The car started despite the heavy damage. He drove down Jefferson Street swerving and speeding. He prayed that he did not encounter any police cruisers. He had the perfect probable cause in the back seat to justify a search of the vehicle and seize the driver. In the distance, he heard the wail of sirens that raced to the crime scene he just departed.

  At 17th Street, Dre turned right and continued to the hospital on the corner of 17th and Girard Avenue. When he crossed Girard, he drove past the hospital, though. He pulled over just passed the hospital and jumped out of the mini van. He climbed into the back seat and checked Chino for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

  He grabbed Leah’s briefcase and Chino’s gun and climbed out. He packed the drugs in his gym duffle bag after he took out his sweaty gym clothes. He took off the battery-included orange and put on his black Polo sweat suit, to which he ignored the smell of stinking sweat.

  Dre walked from the car, but he returned, having forgotten an important piece of evidence to at least give the cops a hard time with figuring out who the car belonged to.

  Dre strolled down Girard Avenue, and as he crossed 15th Street, a Chevrolet Caprice Classic passed him slowly. The driver yelled, “yo, get in!”

  Dre continued to walk and crossed the street. He did not know the driver. He cut through the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot and was cut off by the Caprice that came whipping into another entrance of the parking lot.

  Dre stuffed Chino’s gun into the driver’s window. “Who the fuck is you? Speak or I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out!”

  “Don’t shoot,” the man said. “I�
�m a criminal investigator. I work for an attorney, but was hired by your brother to keep an eye on you. I provided the information that got you off that Snobli murder. Please put the gun down and get the fuck in the car, before someone sees you and calls the police.”

  Dre ignored the man’s advice and with his free hand he dialed Kareem. When Kareem picked up, he put the phone on speaker. “Talk to him.”

  “Kareem, I have Dre. He has a gun on me. He was shot at by three white guys in a black Navigator,” the man said in one breath.

  “Dre, that’s Mr. Jonathan Rude. Get the gun off him and get the hell out of there, now!”

  Obstinately, Dre stood there stunned. He did not have anything to say, and he was confused. “Where are you?” He asked his brother, and hopped into the Caprice.

  Once again, saved by my little nigga, Dre thought.

  CHAPTER 57

  Cut hyacinths scented the air. Other than the television, only the rattle of the chip bag could be heard in the Lowes Hotel suite in downtown Philadelphia. Kareem’s head rested against the hotel headboard. His face revealed his vulnerability to hurt and anguish. He laid across the bed, in quietude and pondered his fate. Dre’s tirade had not overwhelmed him because his brother was not dead. What he watched on his laptop though was devastating.

  Shimir was in his living room, again, this time pulling Toi close to him. Intimately. She ignored his intimacy and gave him a friendly hug. He pulled her in and tried to kiss her. This was what Kareem got for installing spy ware. He asked for this.

  Shimir then grabbed Toi’s arm violently and sunk his hands deep into her bicep, snatching her close to him. He pointed his index finger in her face, and fear swept across her face. He looked at her violently and then tossed her to the floor without words, before he stormed out the loft.

  Kareem was mad at himself. He installed those cameras. Had he been in New York and not doing a trunk show at Neiman Marcus at King of Prussia mall, he would have been there, and not in a hotel chasing away his problems with vodka? Maybe, he didn’t have to work so much, which alienated her to begin with. He felt dusky and responsible for her assault.

  There was a light bang on his hotel room door and he checked the peephole before he let his brother in. The brothers hugged each other. The moment was surreal.

  Tired of their embrace, Rude cringingly remarked, “Pull your selves together. We are still men here. Besides, you just had a gun the size of Texas in my face.”

  The brothers smiled and patted each other on the back.

  Kareem told Rude, “You’ve done a fine job. Now get out of here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be fine. I wanna get my life back tomorrow, though. I’ll give you the details of what I need.”

  “And, I have the perfect way to handle this.” That was Dre Bezel the Great. Finally he had a plan.

  CHAPTER 58

  The following day, mid-morning brunch was served to raucous hordes of downtown shoppers and the hospital workers at the Midtown II restaurant. It was nestled among the small stores across from the Thomas Jefferson Hospital. The sun beamed violently through the windows lighting the quiet corners of the café. While diners dashed in and out of the restaurant, a sinister meeting took place in the far corner.

  “Let me be concise, here,” McKenzey said his voice full of ire. “I asked you to track him. I figured you had mastered your craft. I thought of myself as lucky to have a former partner like you. Too bad they forced us to split up. But right now, Kareem’s feeling like he can shock me at his discretion. And guess what, you have successfully raised his confidence by not killing Dre last night.”

  “Listen here, the outcome of this is the result of your ineptitude. Do not talk to me like I am one of your subservient thugs. You called me in to help you out. The self-proclaimed guru, the ayatollah. Don’t exercise your jaw muscles to scold me again,” Agent Belton said, unconcerned about McKenzey’s problems.

  “Can I take your order?” the waitress asked, stymieing Belton’s view of the restaurant’s entrance. McKenzey’s back was to the entrance. The woman recorded their orders on her pad, and then stuffed her pen into her braided hair, before she said, “Coming right up.”

  “Who me?” Kareem asked the waitress, and then took a seat at the booth, entering the agent’s purlieu. He had a sly, foxy grin on his face. While McKenzey’s face exposed the haunting details of his flabbergast.

  “Speak of the devil,” McKenzey said.

  “And the devil shall appear. You talked me right up,” Kareem said, boldly. He was there to shock and administer a dose of fear to the agents. “So, what’s up, boys?”

  “Funny you ask. We were just discussing you going up,” McKenzey said. “Up to the penitentiary.”

  “I bet you crawled here to work something out.” Belton said, he did not believe the audacity.

  “You can work yourself out of this conversation, flea!” Kareem said, quickly.

  “Mac?” Belton started. “I could pummel him right here to avoid the headache.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise. I promise that. I’ll remind you of your high school bully. All cops had one, pussy!”

  Belton jumped to his feet in an attempt to intimidate. Kareem was faster and more agile, with no sign of fright. The two men breathed in each other’s face.

  “Belt, why don’t you let me have a chat with, Mr. Bezel?” McKenzey had a sneer plastered on his face, but he had to diffuse the situation. He died to know how that encounter was brought to life.

  “Are you sure?” Kareem asked. “The last time we were in private, you do remember what happened?” Kareem let that sink in and then asked, “You do know the score?”

  Belton looked at McKenzey and huffed in disgust as he left the table.

  “I’ll be straight forward,” McKenzey said.

  Kareem cut him smooth off. “You’re not in a position to speak first. I come to find some common ground between us.”

  “If you ever find it, it will no longer be common,” McKenzey responded, staring into Kareem’s cold eyes. He sipped his coffee.

  “Mac—it’s o’right for me to call you Mac, right?” Kareem asked, politely and went on. “You’re not starting off on the right foot. I am here to make an offer. I’m willing to pay you to back off, but I want all of the intelligence that the feds have on me and my brother at your 6th Street haven for pigs. You know, over there at the year long cock-sucker’s convention.”

  “You’re this year’s key note speaker. Here’s some advice for you. My loyalty cannot be bought.”

  “A quick wit for an asshole. You’re a strange one to mention price with all of the back pockets your hands have dipped into.” The waitress placed two steak dishes in front of them, interrupting Kareem. She disappeared, and he continued, “To get us on the same course, I’ll tell you that I’ve learned you thrive on terrorizing the weaker and more cowardly. You’re weak and ineffectual, though.” He paused, taking a stab into Belton’s medium-rare porterhouse. He chewed the steak, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and raved, “This is good,” as if nothing happened.

  “I have better things to do than play with you.”

  “Well let’s cut to the chase. I plan to go to the public with the information that I have on you—” McKenzey tried to speak, but Kareem wasn’t having that. He was taking this show to a dramatic climax. “I will pay you to disregard the information in exchange for the investigative notes and files from any policing agency regarding me or my brother. This quid pro quo comes with a million dollar bounty attached. Half now, and the otha half when you deliver. Or you can exchange tossed salad in prison with a man that looks like Shaq, but named Tiny.”

  “Foreplay like this only leads to sex. I am not that egregious. However,”—he pulled out a tape recorder—“I could arrest you for this chicanery. But I won’t. I’d like it much better snatching you off a Bryant Park runway during fall fashion week.”

  “I don’t mean to rape the thunder from your confide
nce, but you’re not in control. I know what you did to my father, bitch ass cracka!”

  “Our business is done. Obviously my last statement eluded your high fashion IQ. I am a decorated officer and I have the connection complexion. Don’t-fuck-with-me.”

  “Check please,” Kareem yelled to the waitress, as he left McKenzey at the table.

  McKenzey laughed at the kid’s tenaciousness.

  ***

  McKenzey left a $5 tip on the table, and then used an ATM in the diner to withdraw cash to cover the tab. He obtained forty bucks and checked his balance. He scanned the receipt, and something came over him. He had a burning desire to get the fuck out of America and pound the pavements of some foreign city. Five minutes earlier, he felt up for the continued Bezel challenge, but after discovering $500,000 extra in his bank account, he wanted to wave the white flag.

  At that moment McKenzey’s cell phone rang. He answered and Kareem said, “Guess, I’m laughing now, bitch-ass clown!”

  CHAPTER 59

  While Kareem handled McKenzey, Dre was in the Bad Lands to set the wheel on motion to avenge Chino’s death. The cops hadn’t progressed in handling that job the legal way and the Colombian community was outraged. Local papers accused the police of abandoning the Hispanic Community. The police had a few dots; none of them connected. Without someone pointing the finger at the shooters, their investigation was as moot as the 9/11 Commissions—no one claimed responsibility for that attack.

  Pretty Tony introduced Dre and Benjamin, and then he ran down the math to get back at the clowns that killed Chino, hood style. Ten minutes later, Dre was in Benjamin’s living room.

  “I’m going to need you butter ball naked.” Ben told his guest, exhibiting why he was called Ben Laden. His circle was tight and anyone attempting to get in for whatever reason had to play by his rules.

  Dre snapped out of his mystified state. Back to reality, he looked bemused. Rather than question, though, he complied, down to his boxers. Ben kicked his clothes toward the kitchen and used his gun to point at Dre’s boxers, then towards the floor. Refusal to recognize the authority figure in this case would be disastrous. Dre did not want to bear all. It appeared his hands were tied and he would have to submit.