Taking a deep breath, she said, “Time to go take a shit,” just loud enough for C-Dub to hear, before grabbing the door handle and exiting the rental.
Thirty-three-year-old Drew Myrie stepped onto the porch of his two-story, half-million-dollar brownstone. “Bumbaclot!” he cursed in his Jamaican native tongue. He removed the hair tie from his locks, then blew into his hands to take some of the chill off. He reached into the front pocket of his black leather trench coat and pulled out a pack of Newport 100s. He popped one of the cigarettes in his mouth. He then reached into the inside pocket of his trench coat to retrieve his lighter. Coming up empty-handed, Drew began to conduct a pat search on himself. “Tsk! Ras clot!” He sulked.
He usually never left the house without some sort of light on him. He was a chain smoker. He smoked cigarettes just as much as he smoked weed, and he smoked weed practically all day, every day, which was why he was fiending for a cigarette. He had run out of smoke. It was up in Brownsville where his stash spot was located.
He glanced at his gold nugget watch. “Where da bumbaclot taxi boy dem?” he asked aloud. He was pissed off that he had to run back upstairs for a light, but his irritation came from the lateness of the taxi he had called. He had a five-kilo deal set up for later that evening and was on a strict time schedule. He needed to shoot over to Brownsville and get back in time to take three kilos and stretch them to five with cut before he met with the buyer.
Drew looked left, then right. To his right, he saw a young-looking girl walking in his direction. To his left, a young-looking boy was traveling his way as well, coming from the opposite end of the block. Rather than running back in the house and risking missing his taxi, Drew opted to ask one of the two young people who would soon pass him for a light. Mi know di likkle young gal or my youth dem smoke, he thought.
The girl was the first to reach Drew. “Excuse me, sweetheart,” Drew began.
Before he could ask his question, the girl scurried past him, with a look of disdain plastered across her face. She never even looked Drew’s way.
“Pussy hole!” Drew muttered, cursing the girl.
He didn’t pay the silver Ford Taurus any mind as it cruised past his brownstone. He was more focused on his own ride. He peered up the block in search of his taxi, hoping it would buck the corner at any moment, but there was nothing in sight. The young-looking boy had just reached the brownstone before Drew’s.
“My youth, ya got a light?” Drew asked.
“Sure, dread,” was the response he received.
“Oh, excuse me, sweetie,” Drew said, correcting himself. “Mi don’t know ya a young girl and not a young lad,” he explained. He realized the person he had thought was a boy was actually a girl. Her attire had deceived him.
“Come.” He waved the girl into the area inside the gate of his brownstone. He started down from the porch at the top of the steps to meet her halfway. “Shit!” Drew cursed. He had nearly tripped and stumbled off his porch. He had caught himself just in time, but the cigarette was not so lucky.
The Newport 100 had dropped out of his mouth. He bent down to retrieve it. Had he gone into his pocket and pulled out another one, things might have turned out different.
Drew’s eyes grew unforgettably wide as he stopped in mid-motion.
The impact of the explosion on his skull knocked him backward after the shot rang out in the air. He lay stretched out at the bottom of the steps of his brownstone, choking on his own blood. The shot to the head did not kill him instantly, but the additional two shots from the. 380 into his heart ended what little life he was holding on to. Drew would never know he was part of a test and a strategic street move.
Twenty-seven-year-old Kafisa Jackson shoved the. 380 semiautomatic C-Dub had given her into her goose-down jacket pocket. She pulled her skullcap down farther to mask her face, then walked back through Drew Myrie’s brownstone gate. She took a quick survey of the neighborhood, just the way she had seen her father do whenever he had stalked someone who owed him money. She noticed curtains closing and lights being turned off in the windows of other brownstones. She wasted no time taking flight down Schenectady Avenue. Moments later she was hopping back into the Ford Taurus rental, now parked on Albany Avenue, a distance from the front building of the Albany Houses projects.
C-Dub had unlocked the passenger-side door as soon as he saw Kafisa turn the corner. He had never turned off the engine of the rental. “You get him?”
Kafisa nodded rapidly. “Yeah, I got him,” she replied in a calm tone.
“Good.” C-Dub smiled. He whipped the steering wheel to the left and pulled into ongoing traffic, nearly causing an accident. He shot down Albany Avenue until he reached Fulton Street. Once he was on Fulton, he slowed down.
Kafisa sat in the passenger seat in deep thought. She had just taken a life. She told herself it was for a good reason. I took a life so I could live a better one, she told herself as they cruised through downtown Brooklyn. An image of Drew Myrie’s eyes appeared in Kafisa’s head. She knew she’d never forget them. She wondered what he could have possibly done for C-Dub to have chosen him as her come up. Kafisa knew it had to be something serious. Remorse was a trait her father had trained her to eliminate in her mind as a little girl, so she felt nothing for the victim. Still, she was curious. She peered over at C-Dub.
He felt Kafisa staring at him. “What’s up?” His eyes went from the road to her and back to the road again.
“Who was that?” she asked abruptly.
C-Dub hooked a right onto Flatbush Avenue. “Who?” he replied, confused.
“The dread.”
C-Dub grimaced. He had known there was a possibility this question would come up. He had hoped it wouldn’t, though. “Why you wanna know?” he asked, evading her question.
“My father told me, you should always know the lives you take. Never know when somebody might seek revenge.”
C-Dub let out a light chuckle. “You’re definitely Kafis’s kid.” He looked over at Kafisa for a second time. “You really wanna know?”
Kafisa nodded.
“That was the bitch-ass nigga that killed your pops.”
At first Kafisa thought she had misheard him. Once she realized she hadn’t, she thought C-Dub was joking, but the look on his face confirmed that he was serious. Kafisa’s chocolate complexion was replaced with an ash-gray one. She couldn’t believe her ears. A world of emotions began to stir within her. She couldn’t believe C-Dub hadn’t told her the target’s identity before.
All this time she had thought her father’s murder was a mystery, but the reality was that his killer had been just mere miles away from where she resided. A tear came from out of nowhere and managed to escape her right eye. In an instant, Kafisa shook off the feeling. She dried the one tear and held back the others that tried to break free. Her father had raised her to be strong at all times, and that was exactly what she intended to do. Now that the initial shock had faded, Kafisa understood why C-Dub had done it the way he had. He had to see if I was really built like that, Kafisa thought.
“You good?” C-Dub asked.
She cleared her throat and peered over at C-Dub for a second time. “I’m more than good,” she responded. “Fuck him. I did what you asked. Now, let’s get this money,” Kafisa added to ensure that he knew she meant business.
C-Dub began to shake his head. “Yeah, let’s do that. Tomorrow’s your official training day,” he said as he crossed the Manhattan Bridge and entered Chinatown.
Kafisa stared out into the distance. Her father’s face appeared in her head. She smiled as he gave her his signature wink and smile. Rest in peace now, Dad. I swear on my life, I’ma pick up where you left off and get it all back, if it’s the last thing I do in life, she silently promised the man responsible for her being the woman she was today.
Chapter Eleven
One year later ...
“Who?” The voice came over the intercom.
“Fuck you mean, who? Buzz me in!”
Kafisa stared up at the mini camera in the upper far left corner of the apartment building.
“My bad,” the voice said.
A second later, a buzzing sound could be heard, followed by a clicking sound. Kafisa grabbed hold of the door handle, pulled the door open, and entered the building. She thought of how proud her father would be. She had gotten her law degree in South Carolina and then came back to reclaim her father’s crown on the streets.
She climbed on the elevator, and after the elevator doors closed, she peered up and silently counted the numbers as they lit up. The elevator stopped on three. She stepped off the elevator and walked to the guarded apartment door. When the door opened, everybody in the apartment stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to Kafisa. A nod of approval from Kafisa caused them all to resume what they had been doing prior to her arrival.
Kafisa scanned the room as she made her way toward the back. She couldn’t help but crack half of a smile. She had some of Brooklyn’s baddest chicks bottling up vials of coke, all of them nude with the exception of the masks they wore. Nearly every chick in BK who had a pretty face and a fat ass and was looking for a come up wanted a job or position in Kafisa’s operation, but only the elite were handpicked. Kafisa was really particular about who she let in and put on her team. She was also very funny about who she did business with. For the past two years, she had made her way up through the ranks on her own strength. She had managed to put together a team of hungry wolves, goons, and hustlers to make her presence felt in the BK borough. With a strong crew and a great coke connect, she had built an empire. Now at age twenty-eight, Kafisa Jackson was on top of her game.
“Wassup, sis?” Halimah said, greeting her boss and friend.
“Business as usual.” Kafisa waved her hand in the air and shook her head. She had been making her rounds all morning, picking up and doing inventory for her total weekly flip. The spot Halimah ran for her was her final stop. She always saved the best earner for last, because she knew the count would take longer. Besides, Halimah was the closest thing to a friend she had, so she enjoyed her company.
She favored Halimah over the other females on her team not only because she was the best earner, but also because she had known her the longest. Aside from that, she knew what type of stock Halimah came from. Her father had actually worked for Kafisa’s dad as an enforcer before his demise. She remembered the times her father had pointed out members of his team to her and had run down their rap sheets, and Halimah’s father had always received high remarks from her father for being straight up and loyal. Kafisa had learned years later with Halimah that the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.
“You wouldn’t be you if it weren’t,” Halimah replied, bringing Kafisa back to the present.
Kafisa smiled and nodded. “True.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know we had a great week.” Halimah beamed.
“When don’t you?” Kafisa returned her grin.
“True!” Halimah replied, trying to imitate Kafisa. That caused the two women to share a laugh.
“So, what’s the count?” Kafisa asked abruptly. She was ready to be done with the work aspect of things so she and Halimah could do their usual politicking about other things.
“Last I checked, we were at forty-two grand.”
“Oh, yeah, you weren’t bullshittin’. Y’all had a great week. That’s a little over seventeen more than what you usually bring in.”
“Exactly,” Halimah answered. She gloated at her intake. “And that was a couple hours ago,” she added.
Kafisa could see how proud Halimah was. She appreciated how Halimah always tried to impress her with her hustle and lieutenant skills. She liked how Halimah was humble rather than cocky, despite the fact that she brought in the most money. Her father had always told her that if a person could be humble around a lot of money, then they were used to being around money. That was the best way Kafisa could describe Halimah.
“We gotta get that up out of here. That’s too much money in the crib,” Kafisa said. “Let’s tally up the rest and get this over with.”
“Okay.” Halimah nodded.
Moments later, Kafisa watched as Halimah ran the bills through the money machine. After all the bills had gone through, Kafisa was pleased with the total count.
“I’ma take most of that and flip just for this house alone,” Kafisa stated. “Keep the other five.”
Halimah nodded. She was still reveling in her weekly intake. “Thanks, sis. I appreciate that.”
“You know I got you. You my dawg.” Kafisa put her hand on Halimah’s shoulder. “After that we can be out and do what we do. Going to the club tonight is going to be fun.”
The thunderous music could be heard the moment Kafisa and Halimah exited the elevator and entered the rooftop club. The private affair was lit, like something straight out of a rap video. The Loft was a modern yet plush space that attracted musical artists and celebrities from every aspect of entertainment. There was no telling who they’d see inside the club.
They were escorted to the VIP table that was reserved for Kafisa. The booming music made Halimah want to dance. Her wide hips swayed from side to side as she whopped all the way to their section. Men and women couldn’t help but eye Halimah’s voluptuous, round ass. She was used to the attention she was receiving on behalf of her ass. At five-eight and 160 pounds of pure thickness, she couldn’t help but bust out of any pair of designer jeans she wore, and tonight was no different as she trailed behind Kafisa.
“Welcome back, Ms. Jackson. Ms. Ford,” the server greeted. He poured them their usual shots of Cîroc.
Neither of them wasted any time tossing the drinks back. Halimah’s face twisted from the sting of the alcohol before transitioning into a relaxed smile. Kafisa let out a light chuckle. She was used to Halimah’s theatrics whenever she drank the popular vodka. It was a step outside of her normal sangria, which she preferred to drink.
For the first forty-five minutes they relaxed in their VIP section. They watched more and more guests enter the club. Halimah sipped on her drink and danced in her seat as she watched Kafisa exchange hugs and handshakes with the local street celebrities and the other famous people housed in the VIP booths next to them.
The DJ catered to every kind of person’s musical needs, spinning hip-hop tracks into house music, bumping the best pop dance hits, and throwing a rock song in every now and then. As the night progressed, so did Kafisa’s and Halimah’s partying. After polishing off nearly half a bottle of peach Cîroc, they were feeling it. They exited their VIP section and made their way onto the dance floor. Even though they were surrounded by bodies, they felt as if they were the only two in the room. They took over the dance floor and rocked to whatever it was the DJ was playing. Kafisa did her two-step with her remix to it, while Halimah gyrated every inch of her curvaceous body. All eyes were definitely on them.
Kafisa scanned the crowd. She could see that she and Halimah had even grabbed the attention of other ballers and money getters occupying the VIP sections. She smiled on the inside. Yeah, muthafuckas, bitches run shit too, she said to herself. She recognized the majority of the crews who were in the VIP sections. She knew who really had it and who was just frontin’. Above all, she knew that everybody knew who she was. In the game she played, male kingpins came a dime a dozen, but in the five boroughs combined, there were only a few female kingpins, and Kafisa was in the top five, dead or alive.
Kafisa’s mood changed as soon as the DJ changed the song he had just been spinning. She bounced to the track as the words “Young niggas move that dope” blared out of the club speakers. Any gangster music about trapping always amped her up. She was a huge fan of Meek Mill, Young Jeezy, and D-Block, to name just a few. Kafisa pivoted and busted her infamous spin move. Blame it on the alcohol, but Kafisa stumbled as she spun. Were it not for the extended arms that caught her in mid-fall, she would have had an embarrassing moment. She immediately sobered up and withdrew from whoeve
r had broken her fall.
“Thanks,” she offered as she raised her head to look up at the man responsible for her not giving the haters something to laugh about at her expense.
“No problem, Confessa.”
The name instantly caught her attention. She hadn’t heard it since her sophomore year in college, when it was given to her. For the first time she focused on the person standing before her. Her heart nearly melted when she saw hiding behind his beard that smirk she had once looked forward to seeing. She noticed how long he wore his beard now. It was apparent he had never stopped working out. His shoulders were much broader than she remembered, and she could see he had more girth in his chest by the way it protruded through his multicolored polo shirt, complimenting his massive arms.
“Jersey Jay?” Kafisa asked, referring to him by the nickname she had given him. She was almost sure it was him, but she wanted him to confirm it.
“Yup!” He flashed his perfect teeth.
Kafisa stared at him hard. She nearly got lost in his light brown eyes, the way she used to. There was no mistaking them. Kafisa traveled back in time for a split second, until her inner self gave her a dose of reality. Bitch, get your shit together! she told herself. You’re a boss now, not some young college chick involved in some puppy love shit. She shook her head and returned his smile.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe it,” Kafisa chirped, amazed that she had bumped into him after all these years.
“Man! Come here and give me a hug!”
Kafisa’s heart fluttered. She watched his eyes grow low, the way they always did when he meant business, as he spoke with the arrogance and confidence she was drawn to. He extended his arms and attempted to give her a “Long time no see you” bear hug.
Carl Weber's Kingpins Page 10
