by K'wan
The man continued to badger Vaughn with questions and even asked him to pose for some pictures. Persia could tell Vaughn was getting annoyed, but he just smiled and was as accommodating as possible. The whole time Persia could feel Ramses’s eyes on her. She dared not look his way out of fear of not knowing what he would do or say. Chucky had been the one who betrayed Ramses, but Persia had been his unwitting accomplice. There was a standing bounty on Chucky’s head and Persia wasn’t sure where she stood. She knew how Ramses dealt and feared that she had now also put Vaughn’s life in jeopardy.
“I know you, don’t I?” Ramses asked, startling Persia to the point where she jumped and almost knocked over one of the water glasses.
“Huh?” Persia asked for lack of a better reply.
“I said, I know you,” Ramses repeated. “Your name is Persia, right?”
Persia was stuck on stupid. She thought about lying and telling Ramses that he was mistaken, but that would raise a red flag with Vaughn. Ramses glared at her, waiting to see how she would respond, while Vaughn looked back and forth between them trying to figure out what the connection was. The secrets Persia had sought to keep were about to come out and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. “Yes, my name is Persia,” she answered softly.
“I thought I recognized you.” Ramses rubbed his hands together as if he was planning something sinister.
Vaughn finally got tired of playing the guessing game. “How do you two know each other?”
“Vaughn, there’s something I need to tell you,” Persia began, but was cut off.
“You’re Face’s little girl,” Ramses said.
“Um, yeah,” Persia said trying to hide her shock. She thought sure that Ramses was about to expose her in front of Vaughn or worse.
“I thought so.” Ramses gave her a knowing nod. “Your dad was a good dude, a stand-up dude. Not like some of these larcenous fucks who are running around calling themselves hustlers these days. The kids today have no honor and would steal from the very pockets that feed them,” he said coldly.
Vaughn noticed the uncomfortable look on Persia’s face so he intervened. “Look, fellas, I don’t wanna be a dick or anything, but I’m feeling like I’m being rude by neglecting my lady.” He let them know subtly that it was time for them to move on.
Ramses looked down at Vaughn. For a minute Persia thought that he was going to make a move, but instead Ramses just smiled. “Sure, you’re right, kid. I can respect a man who knows when he’s got a good thing and tries to do right. Oh, but before I go I was wondering if you could sign an autograph for my son.” He helped himself to one of their cloth napkins and slid it across the table to Vaughn.
“Sure, I’m happy to do it.” Vaughn fished a pen from the pocket of his suit jacket. “What’s his name?”
“Make it out to Pharaoh,” Ramses said glancing at Persia.
“No problem.” Vaughn began scribbling on the napkin. “Is li’l man a fan?”
“Nah, we don’t fuck with the Eagles in my house. We’re Giants fans, but I figure seeing a kid from the gutter who made good with his life can inspire my boy to do the right thing with his.”
“Right,” Vaughn said awkwardly. “Well, here you go.” He handed him the autographed napkin.
“Appreciate it.” Ramses tucked the napkin away. “You kids enjoy your evening.” He turned to leave with his men.
Persia was thinking how she had just dodged a bullet when Ramses stopped and turned back.
“One more thing.” Ramses hovered over the table. “Persia, I’m trying to catch up with a mutual friend of ours. You remember Chucky who drove the red Beemer, right?”
“Yes, but I haven’t seen him in I don’t know how long,” Persia said, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet Ramses’s gaze.
Ramses leaned over and rested his knuckles on their table, causing his heavy gold chain to clank against a discarded saucer. “Are you sure? It’s real important that I get a hold of him.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Persia lied.
Ramses stared at her for what seemed like an eternity before nodding in approval. “Okay.” He stood erect. “But if you do happen to run into him, let him know that I haven’t forgotten about him.” With that Ramses led his men from the restaurant.
When the fear that had been gripping Persia during the whole conversation finally let go, Persia grabbed her water glass with trembling hands and emptied it in one gulp.
“You okay?” Vaughn asked in a concerned tone.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to go home,” Persia said, not able to hide the nervousness in her voice.
Vaughn looked at his watch. “It’s not even nine o’clock. I was thinking we could hit up Times Square and keep the night going.”
“Maybe some other time. I’m suddenly not feeling very well.”
CHAPTER 11
King Tut sat on the passenger side of his black-on-black GMC truck. He had his seat pushed back so far that he might as well have been sitting in the back, and the heavily tinted window was lowered just enough for him to flick the ashes from the blunt he had been smoking. He loved that truck. It was the first big purchase he had made since Ramses put him in the position to make some real money.
Several years prior King Tut had been a soldier working under one of Ramses’s lieutenants named Benny. He was on the come up, but his ascension was derailed by a prison sentence. A situation jumped off and Tut had taken one for the team. Most men only sent letters full of empty promises to their comrades in prison, but Benny sent cash and made sure Tut was taken care of during his entire bid. He also promised when Tut came home he would still have a place within the organization. By the time Tut was released from prison, Benny was dead and there were two new kids running the block.
King Tut was skeptical that his time in prison had caused him to miss his opportunity, but Ramses stayed true to the promise Benny had made and put him on when he touched down. It didn’t take long for King Tut to prove that he was an efficient earner, but he was also a very capable killer. There was no hesitation or remorse on Tut’s part when it came to taking a life. For him it was as simple as turning a light switch on or off. His bloodlust made most give him a wide berth, but Ramses saw value in a man with Tut’s unique skill set and as a reward he gave him his own crew. Tut now had money and power, but he still craved more and was willing to do whatever it took to achieve it, even if it meant stepping on a few toes.
“This is the spot right here,” Ed said from behind the wheel. Ed was an older dude who was down with Ramses’s crew. He wasn’t much of a thinker and suffered from a serious lack of motivation, which explained why he was almost twice as old as most of them but had never made it very far up the ladder in their organization. Tut didn’t really care for Ed, but he had his uses, mostly running errands and driving for whoever needed him because he was one of the few of them who had a clean driver’s license, or a license at all for that matter.
King Tut sat up and peered out the window. They were in front of a small storefront that had been converted into a soul food restaurant by the current owner. The words GEORGE’S CHICKEN were scrawled across the brown awning. “It would be another fucking restaurant.” He chuckled to himself, thinking about what had happened the last time somebody sent him to handle business at restaurant. Tut punched in what appeared to be a series of random numbers on the in-dash stereo system and a hidden compartment popped down from beneath the glove box. From it he retrieved a small Glock.
Ed looked at the gun skeptically. “What’s that for? I thought Ramses just wanted us to talk to him.”
“We are going to talk. This”—he brandished the gun—“is my translator. Now bring your scary ass on.” He got out of the car.
King Tut walked into the soul food joint with Ed hot on his heels. It was the dinner rush so they were crowded. He weaved his way through the tables full of diners on his way to the kitchen area, plucking a chicken wing off the plate of a stunned patron. Halfway there he was s
topped by a young woman wearing a T-shirt that bore the company logo.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, standing between King Tut and the kitchen.
“Yeah, sweetie. I’m here to see George,” Tut said, munching on his stolen chicken wing.
“He’s not in right now,” the woman said, but she didn’t sound convincing.
“Is that right?” Tut peered past her toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. He saw someone peek through one of the little round windows and disappear. “Look out.” He brushed past her.
“Wait you can’t go back there!” the woman shouted, but Tut ignored her and kept going.
He pushed through the doors and stepped into the kitchen area, which was slightly larger than the dining room. Wait staff and cooks milled back and forth between the rows of pots and pantry shelves, preparing meals for their hungry guests. King Tut took his time strolling down one of the aisles, drawing the occasional glance from a surprised employee but no one moved to stop him. It didn’t take him long to find George. He was standing near the deep fryer, pretending that he was so busy with the chicken and fish that he didn’t notice Tut.
“What’s up, Chicken George?” Tut said his name with a smirk. It was a play on the shucking and jiving slave turned cock-fighter in the movie Roots. George hated to be called that, and Tut knew it, which was why he did it.
George turned around with a manufactured look of surprise on his face. “What’s going on, Tut? Didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’ll bet. I need to have a word with you, George.”
“Okay, can you maybe come back later? We’re hella busy right now,” George said, pulling a hot strainer full of fried chicken from one of the deep fryers.
“No, it can’t wait. Our mutual friend is wondering why your orders have gotten smaller and smaller over the past few weeks,” King Tut said.
George wiped his hands. “What can I say, things have been tight lately.”
“That’s funny, because I’ve had one of my boys watching this place for the last couple of days and it’s still looking like business as usual; discount dinners out the front and cocaine out the back. What gives?”
George looked nervous.
“Is everything okay back here, Mr. George?” A large black man wearing a dirty apron appeared behind them. He was easily taller than King Tut by a foot, and wore a scowl on his face. In his hand he held a meat cleaver.
“Yeah, everything is cool, Ant,” George said in a nervous tone. His eyes pleaded with Ant not to leave, so he lingered while George finished talking to his guests.
King Tut gave the scowling Ant an amused look before turning his attention back to George. “Look, George, it’s too hot in this fucking kitchen to mince words with you so let’s get straight to it. When you were selling five dollar dinners out of the trunk of your car Ramses put you in position to open this joint and is compensating you very well for the drugs you move through here, but lately you been on some brand new shit. It doesn’t take a genius to know that something is funny, and I’m just trying to figure out what it is.”
George thought about lying, but the truth would’ve come out eventually. He was sure King Tut wasn’t going to like what he had to say, but doubted he would be foolish enough to try anything right then and there with Ant having the drop on him.
“Okay, fuck it,” George began. “One of those Clark boys came by here and made me a business proposition. The coke they’re giving me is twice as potent as what Ramses was hitting me with and the numbers are better.”
“George, I’m disappointed in you.” A look of sadness crossed King Tut’s face. “We’re supposed to be a team and as soon as things get a little complicated you go crawling to the other side and start sucking Clark dick. I always took you for a stand-up dude, but that’s some real bitch shit. To top it off, you dropped a body on Ramses’s streets without getting the nod. You’re out of pocket, old man.”
“Now you hold the fuck on,” George snapped. “I don’t know nothing about no murder, so you can miss me with that shit. Furthermore I been on these streets since you were still pissing yourself in grade school, so I’m gonna need you to show me some respect, especially in my damn establishment. You’re right, we’re supposed to all be a team but we can barely eat with that stepped-on shit Pharaoh been putting in the streets lately. This thing that’s brewing between Pharaoh and the Clarks ain’t got nothing to do with me. I’m just out here trying to make a dollar and they came with a better offer. Ramses of all people should be able to understand that. This wasn’t personal; it was all business.”
“All business, huh?” Tut smirked. “Well, this is personal.” He grabbed one of the fryers that had been submerged in the hot grease and tossed the contents on Ant. The big man howled as the greased melted away the skin on his face and chest. George tried to run, but Tut grabbed him by the back of his apron and pulled him back. He wrapped his hand around the back of George’s neck and forced his face down just inches above the deep fryer. “Now you listen to me, you chicken frying piece of shit; when you were flat on your ass and selling five dollar plates Ramses put you on your feet and this is how you repay him?” He pushed his face closer to the grease.
“Please, Tut, don’t do this to me!” George pleaded. Grease popped up, stinging his face.
“That’s King Tut to you, you traitorous muthafucka!” He squeezed his neck tighter. “Let me tell you something and you better listen loud and damn clear, Chicken George. For as long as niggas like me are still behind the triggers these streets belong to Pharaoh!”
“Yeah, King Tut, whatever you say!” George assured him.
After holding him there for a few more moments to make sure he got the message Tut let him up. “Get the word out to your people, Chicken George, and you let them know about our little chat, you hear me?”
“I hear you.” George panted, trying to catch his breath. For a minute he thought he had fried his last batch of chicken.
“That’s good.” Tut patted George on the shoulders reassuringly. “Not for nothing, I kinda like heart attack food y’all serve up in here and I’d hate to have to come back and burn the joint down. So long as we understand each other, everything is cool. Are we cool, George?”
“Yeah, we’re cool,” George said, leaning against the fryer while trying to compose himself. He hated Tut even more now than he did before, but he was willing to agree to whatever he said just to get him out of his restaurant.
“Good, so you won’t take this personal.” Tut grabbed George by the wrist and dipped his hand to the knuckle in hot grease. Tut laughed hysterically while George shrieked. When he felt like he suffered enough he released George and shoved him on the floor.
George cowered on the floor while clutching his ruined hand to his chest. “My hand. My fucking hand,” he whimpered.
“Next time I gotta come back it’ll be your fucking head going in instead of your hand.” Tut kicked him in his ass for good measure. “Spread the word, Chicken George.” He stepped over Ant on the way out. “You buy from Pharaoh or you’re out of business.”
King Tut strolled casually back to the truck and climbed in like he didn’t have a care in the world. The same couldn’t be said for Ed. He was clearly rattled, looking around nervously as if he was expecting someone to jump out and grab them. Ed was in such a rush to get away from the scene of the crime that he almost sideswiped a delivery truck when he pulled away from the curb.
“Why don’t you be the fuck cool?” Tut plucked the weed clip he had been smoking from the ashtray and relit it.
“Tut, how can you expect me to be cool when I just watched you deep fry two people?” Ed asked, steering with both hands wrapped tightly around the wheel. “Ramses said to talk to George, not maim him!”
“I prefer a more hands-on approach.” Tut snickered, thinking about George’s burnt hand.
“This could cause us some unwanted problems if George’s people make a stink about what happened. We got enough
problems as it is without bringing more beef to the table,” Ed said.
Tut sat up and looked at him. “What is it with all this ‘we’ and ‘us’ shit? You ain’t no shot caller, nigga. You’re a fucking flunky. Now do your job and drive the fucking car before you find yourself unemployed; and I think you know what the severance package is hitting for.” He patted his waist.
“I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was just trying to look out for you,” Ed said nervously.
“Last nigga tried to look out for me ended up whacked. You remember that, Ed,” Tut warned.
“Whatever you say, King Tut.” Ed turned his eyes back to the road.
Tut shook his head. “These niggas and their fucking opinions,” he said to no one in particular. Tut pulled out the small recorder that he’d had stashed in his pocket and hit the play button. “Ramses of all people should be able to understand that. This wasn’t personal; it was all business,” he heard George’s voice play back. With a triumphant smile on his face, Tut whipped out his cell phone and placed a call.
CHAPTER 12
Meeka got out of the taxi in the meatpacking district in downtown Manhattan and double checked the address Boogie had texted her. She was in the right place, but from the looks of the drab warehouse she was standing in front of it didn’t look like much of a party was going on. In fact it didn’t look like there was anything going on at all. She didn’t hear any music, and there was nobody on the deserted street. It looked like more of a spot for an ambush than a birthday party.
Meeka tried to flag down the taxi she had just gotten out of, but it was already bending the corner. There was no traffic in sight so flagging down another one was out of the question. She could’ve called one, but standing on the empty street gave her the creeps. She decided it was best to move to a more populated and better lit area and figure out her transportation issue from there. Meeka was about to start making moves up the block when she heard something.
“Pssst. Pssst.”
