The hostess sat Reese and Destiny at their tables. Reece pulled out Destiny’s chair for her, then bid the hostess farewell. Menus were on the table, and as they perused the menus, Destiny couldn’t hold it in.
“This is nice, Reece, or should I call you King?” she asked sarcastically.
“You can call me what you want,” he responded. “Just don’t call me too late for nothing good.”
Destiny smiled, but she still didn’t let up. “So, do you bring your hoes—oops, I mean honeys—here often?”
Reece saw where this was going and decided to play along.
“Nope, you’re the only hoe—oops—I mean honey that I’ve been out with in a while,” he said, never looking up from the menu.
Destiny conceded. “O-kaay. Point taken,” she said. “But seriously, do you come here often?”
Reece lowered the menu momentarily, looking at Destiny. “Destiny, I’m serious. Most of the women I meet are really not deserving of this type of date.”
“So, what makes me different?” Destiny shot back.
“Well, for starters, when you found out who I was, you didn’t try to push up on me, trying to fuck me.”
“Ooh.”
“I apologize if I’m too blunt, but I’m a realist. I deal with the actual factual. If my language offends you, let me know.”
“No, it’s not the language,” Destiny assured him. “It’s the statement itself.”
Reece placed the menu down and got serious for a moment. “I’m serious,” he told her. “If a woman isn’t trying to trick straight up, she’s trying to play all kind of cute games to get a brother to spend anyway.”
Destiny listened and responded. “Well that doesn’t say much about the vibes you put out.”
“Excuse me?” Reece asked unbelievingly.
“I’m saying, for these women to feel like they can get in your pockets so easy says something about the message you sending.”
Reece reasoned with her. “Maybe.”
Destiny nodded her head. “Of course.”
“Or,” Reece continued, “maybe they go by what they hear, like some other people I know.” He shot her an accusing look.
“Who, me?” Destiny asked innocently.
“Yeah, you. By the way, what was it you heard? ’Cause, damn, the way you acting, you’d think I killed Kennedy.” Reece laughed at the thought.
Destiny threw a breadstick from the basket on the table at him playfully. “It’s not funny. I did hear some crazy things about you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one, I heard that you sell drugs . . . lots of it, too. Then I heard that the Crescent Crew,”—she accented quotation marks with her hands—“are nothing but a bunch of murderers, drug dealers, and notorious playboys. And you’re the leader.”
Reece mockingly shuddered his shoulders. “Whew, they sound like a rough bunch! Got me scared just thinking about them,” he retorted.
“I’m serious, Reece,” she insisted. “And I heard that your guys had something to do with the body that was found hanging from a high-rise downtown a few weeks ago.”
At the mention of the murder, Reece perked up, but he was too much of a vet to let it show on his face. “Well, that shit sound crazy,” he said, sipping some of his warm sake. “I’m just glad you don’t believe it.”
Destiny raised her eyebrows. “How do you know I don’t believe it?”
Reece jumped to answer like that was the million-dollar question. “If you believe it, why are you here with me alone? For all you know I could kidnap you, and no one would ever see you again.” He smiled confidently, raising his eyebrows.
Destiny spoke in slow, measured tones. “You know I thought of that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Reece challenged.
“Yeah, that’s why I got my girlfriend to get your tag number. So if I’m not home by twelve, she going to call the police.” She smiled and arched her eyebrows this time. Checkmate.
The waitress came to take their orders. She was dressed as a geisha as well. Reece ordered yakitori. It sounded so good, Destiny ordered the same. The waitress brought more sake and bread before she left them alone again. When they were alone, round two began.
“So, Reece, let me get this right? You don’t sell drugs, but you drive around in ninety-thousand-dollar Porsches, wear silk on the regular, and you’re wearing a Rolex that probably costs more than the average person’s house.” Destiny paused for emphasis. “May I ask what do you do for a living?”
Reece leaned farther back in the chair, sizing her up, deciding how much of himself he wanted to reveal. “Well, I own a few car dealerships,” he casually admitted.
Destiny looked at him, pleading for more. She obviously didn’t believe owning a few car lots could accurately account for the lavish lifestyle he lived.
“So let me get this right,” she questioned. “You have three cars, none of them costing less than fifty grand, a home in the country—”
“Hold up!” Reece interrupted. “Fuck are you, police?”
“Yeah,” she answered unflinchingly, before breaking into a laugh. “I’m just kidding, man,” Destiny assured him. “Relax, Reece, don’t be surprised. We live in the information age. You can find anything you want to know about someone right off the Internet. All you really need is a name, if you know where to look. I must admit, I looked you up. I apologize, but I was curious.”
She looked deeply into Reece’s eyes, silently begging forgiveness. Reece stared back into her eyes intensely, as if trying to read them. After a short while, he broke the stare down.
“Don’t sweat it,” Reece told Destiny. “I guess there’s not enough information on the Internet to hurt me. If anything, it proves my case. I’m not a drug dealer.” Reece made a mental note to check the Internet as soon as possible to see what it held about him.
“Score one for Reece. I guess you’re right,” Destiny replied.
“So, what do you do for a living?” Reece asked, taking the subject off of him. He sipped his sake while she talked.
“I’m a student. I take criminal justice at UNC. I’m in my second year this semester.”
Reece looked from side to side as if he missed something. “What do you do for a living?” he repeated. “You drive around in a Honda Accord, wear slip dresses with diamond-dipped sandals, keep your do freshly dipped . . .”
Reece was turning the tables. Destiny was agitated and charmed at the same time. She hated to admit it, but she was actually feeling Reece. His sense of humor was a plus.
Destiny turned her mouth up at him. “Real cute,” she said.
“Hey, I’m just saying, I need to know, because for all I know you could be a drug dealer,” Reece taunted, innocently shrugging his shoulders.
“Hee-hee-hee. You made your point. I’m a daddy’s girl. My father takes care of me.”
“Your father? How old are you, girl!? I ain’t down with the R. Kelly thang.”
Destiny was in stitches. She was really enjoying this. “Boy, I’m twenty-four.”
“Oh, whew!” Reece remarked, playfully rubbing his forehead.
Their conversation was interrupted as their cook, who introduced himself as Haiku, rolled his whole cooking apparatus in front of their table.
This was a restaurant where you were entertained as well as fed. The cook cooked the whole meal in front of them. He spiced things up by flipping food, chopping different ingredients up with huge knives, eyes closed, all the while telling you each dish’s name and origin.
Haiku held a broiled shrimp to Destiny’s mouth on a chopstick. She ate it off the chopstick and complimented the chef. She was having a ball.
Reece was enjoying himself as well. This was the most fun he’d had with a woman in a while. Just pure fun, no sex. This was an anomaly for him. Because he was so eccentric, he rarely found a woman he had chemistry with out of bed. However with Destiny, it was different.
Afte
r they ate the main course, they talked over dessert. Destiny was abreast of world politics. To her surprise, Reece wasn’t just abreast of world politics; he was fluent in history, world economics, and especially world wars. He completely broke down the cause of World War II and all but declared Hitler a genius. He could even break down the number of miles to the sun and how much the planet weighed . . . though Destiny questioned his estimates for lack of proof. She was genuinely surprised. Reece was a regular Renaissance man. To say she was impressed would be an understatement.
When the night was over, he dropped her off at her girlfriend’s house. They promised to do this again soon. Real soon, as Reece didn’t like long-term plans. He was a live-for-today type of guy.
Chapter 9
The cars rolled into the storage garage off Hope Mills Road one by one, single-file. There was a black Lexus LS 430, followed by a Jaguar S-type. They were followed by two black 4Runners. Standing on his 350Z, at the end of the garage, was Black Vic. He was coked up and eagerly anticipating the arrival of his guests.
Each vehicle came to a stop just a few feet from where Black was parked. The occupants exited the car and Black greeted each of them.
“What’s up, Scar.” He drove the Lexus.
“What’s the deal, D.” He drove the Jag.
The occupants of the 4Runners were never referred to by name, only by their title: Blood Team. There were four of them in all, two per truck. They were known in certain circles, but Black had never met them personally until now. They had been enlisted by the gentlemen in the first two cars, Scar and D, who were business partners of Black. They all shared a common problem: They couldn’t make any money because of the Crescent Crew. They all agreed the best way to get rid of the problem was to eliminate Reece, in the hope that with the head cut off, the body would fall. Then all could make money again.
Black jumped off the car, joining the rest of the crowd. “Yo, I’m glad you could make it,” Black opened.
Scar nodded. “Of course. We need to deal with this problem.” Scar was short and stocky. He resembled a penguin, but his nice clothes and charisma made him attractive. He was thirty-six years old, and for the last fifteen years had had a strong hold on the west side of town, off Cumberland Road. Until now, any major weight came through him. He owned businesses and was well-respected in every hood.
“Preferably as soon as possible.” That was D. He was short also, but he had a muscular, athletic build. His curly hair and light skin made him a ladies’ man. It also made him suspect to the other dealers. They thought him too soft to deal with tough issues. Little did they know, when prodded, he was more vicious than the most vicious. He owned businesses as well and was so far removed from the streets, he only saw his product once in its route to the inner cities of the Carolinas. D was twenty-eight years old.
“Of course, that’s why we’re here,” Black said, pinching his nose. “We’ve been doing business for a long time. Too late to let this nigga come in and stop it.”
“Uh, Black, did you go to him with the proposal like we suggested?” Scar asked, always the businessman.
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
“Told me they were self-contained. They didn’t need me for anything. Damn near spit in my face. I started to shoot his ass right then,” Black relayed. He was getting more heated by the minute.
“Calm down, Black,” D cooed. He was always smooth.
“Yeah, calm down,” Scar agreed. “We’re glad you didn’t do that. We don’t need any extra heat on you or your crew, which is why we hired the Blood Team here.” He gestured to the four men in the back. “I know you can handle it, but to be safe, we want them to handle it. They’re professionals.”
Right on cue, one of the four men stepped forward. Black presumed he was the leader. He carried himself with assurance. It’s just something about being there when someone meets their maker that gives one certain poise. Especially if you caused it.
The man spoke, “For twenty-five K, we’ll bring his head to you, if that’s what you want.” He was dead serious. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice. He waited on an answer on the decapitation, which tripped Vic out when he realized it.
“Oh, nah, man. That won’t be necessary,” Vic replied. “Just make sure he’s dead, that’s all.”
“Now, Vic, listen. We’re not trying to say we can handle your business better than you,” Scar clarified. “We’re just trying to help you. Everybody wins this way.”
Vic understood exactly what he meant. Scar supplied Vic cocaine, and D supplied Vic heroin. If Vic didn’t make money, they didn’t make money. Everybody loses. If they lent Vic this hit squad, the competition would be eliminated. Everybody wins. Vic’s hands would never get dirty. In fact, he was going away to the Bahamas for two weeks Monday morning for an alibi.
As long as Vic wasn’t implicated in a murder, they wouldn’t be implicated by Vic for anything. It was simply business. Vic had been dealing with D and Scar since he was twenty-three years old. He was twenty-six years old now.
“I understand that,” Vic told Scar.
The hit man spoke. “Look, man, all we need to know is what kind of car he drives, what he’s called on the street. All of that.”
“I know you heard of him. His name is King.”
“King?” The hit man asked, shocked. “As in King Reece?”
“Yeah, mu’fucka! Why? Is there a problem?” Black asked, agitated. He felt offended that the killer was giving Reece so much respect.
“Hold on, dawg. Be easy,” the hit man pleaded. “It ain’t a problem, as long as the money ain’t a problem.”
“I got the money.” Black whistled, and his right-hand man, Hardtime, emerged from the shadows with a brown bag. He spread the contents of the bag onto the hood of Scar’s Lexus. There were five stacks of money carefully wrapped.
“It’s all there. You can count it,” Hardtime told him.
“Wait a minute,” D interrupted, looking at Scar. “Put the money up. We got this. Right, Scar?”
“Yeah, we got it.”
“Hold up. I carry my own weight,” Black protested. He never wanted to appear weak.
Scar walked over to him and put his arm around his shoulder. “Come on now. Don’t be so testy. What’s a favor between friends? This is all of our problem. Let us handle this.” He whispered in Black’s ear, “Remember, everybody wins.”
That did the trick. Black reluctantly agreed. He reasoned, Hell, if they want to spend twenty-five grand on that, more money for me.
“All right, cool,” Black said aloud.
“Good, now when do you want it done?” the hit man asked.
“Listen, all you have to do is have it done this week. I know he’s going to be at that party Thursday. That’s the best time.”
“Are you crazy? Everybody in the Southeast is going to be at that party!” Scar exploded.
“Exactly, which will make him an easy target,” Black reasoned.
The hit man watched them go back and forth for a moment. Then he spoke. “Don’t worry, we’ll handle it. If it’s the party you want, it’s the party you’ll get.” Then he added with a smile, “After all, the customer is always right.”
That concluded the meeting. Everyone loaded into their cars and headed to their respective parts of town, except Vic. He stayed inside the garage with Hardtime. They poured a big bag of cocaine onto the hood of the 350Z and snorted for the rest of the night. Vic inwardly rejoiced. He was close to solving his dilemma and getting back to the money.
He warned the streets before. Now, they were going to learn about messing with Black Vic.
* * *
At the exact moment Black Vic was plotting Reece’s demise, Reece and Samson sat in an old Chevy across the street from a single-story family home in Hollywood Heights. It was just after midnight, and there wasn’t a car on the block. Samson had backed the Chevy up in the carport of the empty house about a half hour ago. They had been watchin
g the house across the street ever since. The home belonged to the shooter who had taken aim at Reece that day in traffic.
After the incident, Reece had put a substantial amount of money in the street to track down whoever had the audacity to take aim at his life. It took a few weeks for the money to dance and do its thing, but in the end, the info moonwalked right back into Reece’s lap.
Now he was here to right a wrong.
“How much longer we gonna wait?” Samson whispered, looking around. Even though the windows were rolled up airtight, Samson’s mood still had him whispering. “You know how these neighborhoods are, they can spot something out the ordinary like a bloodhound can a coon.”
Reece glanced at his partner, confused. Sometimes Reece forgot Samson was just a country boy at heart. He was a dangerous country boy, but a country boy nonetheless. “Just a few more minutes,” Reece replied, never taking his eyes off the light in one of the bedrooms. “A few more minutes.”
Reece’s two-way buzzed to life, scaring the shit out of them both. He checked it. A message from Destiny. He smiled as he replied to the message.
“Damn, what got you cheesing over there?” Samson wondered.
“Huh? Ohhh, ole girl just hit me up.”
“Which one?”
“Destiny, the one I went out with the other night.”
“You must be feeling this one. I haven’t never seen you smile like that.”
Reece smiled, recalling some of their conversations. Since their date, they had talked every day, three and four times a day, long, thought-provoking conversations. “Yeah, this one seems different, bro.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but she just seems different. The more time I spend around her, I’ll figure it out.” Reece was actually looking forward to spending time with Destiny. He had already invited her to Qwess’s party. Her message asked if her uncle could tag along with her.
“Yeah, this is definitely different,” Samson joked.
“Chill with that, bro. Matter fact, let’s go.”
Street Rap Page 8
