by Erica Hilton
An hour later, Meek dropped Jessica off in Harlem—the busy 125th Street. Jessica wanted to do some shopping. She kissed her lover goodbye and climbed out of the truck. She felt safe, but Maserati Meek left her with a shadow—one of his goons to watch her back. He wouldn’t speak or interact with Jessica; it was forbidden. Where she went, he went, and he would remain subtly unseen in the background, armed and trained to kill.
“Let’s go,” Maserati Meek said to his driver.
He gave Jessica one last fleeting look as the SUV moved away from the curb. His fun time was over; now it was back to business.
***
The dark Escalades rolled up in front of an old Brooklyn residence in East New York. On this sunny, summer day, the urban block was flooded with thugs and drug fiends, while the neighborhood kids played in the blast of cold water from the fire hydrant. A few neighbors enjoyed the sun-drenched day by sitting on their concrete steps or their aged porches, chitchatting and watching cars and people pass by.
One of the Escalades parked on the street, while the other pulled into the narrow driveway and stopped. The back door opened, and Meek climbed out. The backyard had a high wooden privacy fence looping around it. The neighbors on the block knew who the men were and were concerned about their illicit activities, but they minded their business. These were dangerous men, and fear was a strong motivation for silence and cooperation.
Meek entered the residence from the back entrance. The smile he had earlier was long gone, replaced with an expressionless look. The house was where victims were taken and questioned, and sometimes discarded. No drugs or cash were present, though some guns and men were. It was the hub for an operation they planned to carry out. It was hush-hush until it was the right time.
Flanked by his foreign henchmen, Meek walked through the kitchen and descended into the concrete basement. Three men lingered below. Meek’s African American goons were not needed for this operation; only Egyptian men were involved in this side of the business. Each man looked more sinister than the next. They were busy with assembling equipment and welding machinery—engrossed in preparation and perfection. Maserati Meek stood in the center of the basement and observed how it all was coming together, piece-by-piece. He would wage a war on the New York streets—one like the city had never seen before. His enemies would tremble with fear, and his name would reign supreme. He smiled at the progress being made and thanked his men in Egyptian Arabic.
“My brothers, Allah is with us today.”
3
The Kid sat in the room devising his master plan of deception. He once read that during World War II, the Allies used dummy tanks made out of cardboard to deceive German reconnaissance planes into thinking a large armored unit was on the move in one area while the real threat was somewhere else. And it worked. The Kid needed to implement his trickery, but it wouldn’t involve a dummy anything. There would be human sacrifices.
He figured that at the event Jessica put together, he and his crew would be gunned down in a hail of bullets when they exited the club—slaughtered viciously on the streets for everyone to see. He would have done it the same way, but there was no underestimating Maserati Meek. He doubted anyone from Meek’s crew would come inside the club because it would put everyone on high alert.
How would he attack, and exactly when? The Kid needed to think.
Jessica was also on his mind. He wanted to see her. Though she was a selfish and conniving bitch, he wanted her. But there was no avoiding it; eventually, she would have to die. She was a huge liability, and keeping her alive would make him look weak to Devon and Papa John.
The Kid met with Devon privately to go over his plan. He told Devon everything, and how it should be done. It was a chance, a huge one, but The Kid felt it would work.
“Listen, how can dead men implement revenge?” he said to Devon. “If Maserati Meek thinks we’re dead, then let’s make it look that way. Let’s create it. And then soon after, he won’t even see us coming.”
Devon was listening, but it was hard for him to wrap his head around what The Kid was suggesting. Kid was the brains, and Devon was the muscle—the killer.
“Yo, why we doin’ all this? We should just lay on this nigga Meek and blow his fuckin’ back out and that ho, cunt, Jessica too. I’m telling you, this shit don’t feel right. Your brother underestimated this Muslim muthafucka and he dead now.”
“Don’t disrespect my brother,” Kid warned.
“How is saying a dead nigga dead disrespect?”
Kid cut his eyes toward Devon. “What’s with all these questions? You got a problem wit’ the way I run things?”
“It ain’t even like that. I got a problem wit’ getting a tag on my toe before my time. I know you’re smart, but walking into an ambush don’t seem smart to me. In fact, it feels the opposite. It feels dumb, Kid. I’m telling you, let’s not do this!”
Both Devon and Kid were frustrated. Kid understood Devon’s hesitation, but he needed his triggerman to be on the same page.
“Let me paint this picture for you. My brother is six feet below rotting. Maggots are eating away at his flesh and his soul ain’t at rest. I know this cuz he comes to me in my dreams. In order for Kip to rest peacefully, I gotta beat this sand nigga not only with muscle but with my mind too. This was cerebral from day one. The moment Meek hired y’all to rob the drop, he positioned his pieces on the chess board, and he doesn’t want to lose. When he killed Kip he knocked over our knight. He had no idea that I’m the fuckin’ king. I have to finish what Kip started. Meek has to lose twice—mentally and then physically. If you can’t understand that, let Papa John step up to the plate. We gonna win, Devon. You just gotta trust me.”
Devon nodded. He was ready to go.
The next evening, they all met at Eshon’s place to talk. She’d been living there alone since her mother had moved to Brooklyn. There, they had the privacy to meet and talk. Devon wheeled Kid into the apartment.
Eshon was still mourning Kip’s murder, but she was getting a little better every day. She had a million regrets. She regretted each time she denied him pussy because she was angry with him. She regretted never getting pregnant because she wanted to be his wife first. She regretted not telling him she loved him more. Her days were filled with regrets.
Brandy was already present, seated on the couch pulling from a blunt, and Papa John arrived soon after. Everyone who mattered was inside Eshon’s place.
Eshon looked at Kid and asked, “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. I think about him every day,” he replied.
“I think about him every minute,” she said.
“A’ight, Y’all listen up,” Devon hollered. “I called this meeting today because I got a plan.”
“A plan? You? For what?” Brandy asked, looking at him skeptically.
Devon cut his eyes at Brandy. “You think I’m just some ignorant killer, huh, Brandy? You don’t know much about me. I’m smarter than you think, fuckin’ bitch.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she countered.
“Bitch, you think I’m a fuckin’ joke!” Devon exclaimed.
“Hey, let’s just all be quiet, chill out, and listen to him,” The Kid said. “Now is not the time to be going against each other when there’s a real threat that wants us dead.”
Kid quickly calmed things down between Brandy and Devon. Now wasn’t the time for civil war. If they didn’t come together as one, then they were going to be defeated and die. Brandy took another pull from the blunt and then passed it to Eshon. After everything she’d been through, she needed to smoke regularly.
The Kid nodded toward Devon to continue. He did.
“Like I was sayin’ before I was rudely interrupted, I got a plan, and it’s a really good one,” said Devon.
The room was listening. Devon stood in the center of the room with his rough appearan
ce. His small Afro was nappy, his hands were ashy, and his clothes had seen better days, his beige Timberlands scuffed and untied. It was clear that he was carrying a pistol in his waistband, and his eyes were colder than the Antarctic. He was in charge, but how? Some people wondered.
Devon was the exact opposite of Kip. Kip had swag; Devon had none. Kip was smart and put-together, twenty-four/seven. Devon was a hothead and reminded people of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street, living out of a garbage can and dirty. He had a sixth-grade education but was respected on the streets because of his gunplay. He had no finesse. But this was the man who was supposed to keep the crew alive and outwit Maserati Meek, a criminal kingpin. Brandy, Eshon, and others in their growing crew did have some concern. Papa John was the only one who knew who was really calling the shots.
Devon stood in front of everyone and started to recite the monologue The Kid taught him to remember and say. It took them hours for Devon to get things right and know where The Kid was going with the idea. He started to talk, saying, “What I’m about to propose will involve some human sacrifices.”
Whoa, “propose” and “human sacrifices,” those were pretty big words for a hotheaded killer with a limited education, they thought.
Devon went on to say, “Maserati Meek will continue to be a threat to us until we’re dead to him. So let us make him believe that we’re dead. This coming event that Jessica has set up, we will die there.”
Brandy and Eshon thought he’d lost his mind. Where was he going with this speech and plan? The Kid remained silent. So far, Devon was doing a pretty decent job outlining the plan to everyone.
There was concern and grumbling, though.
“Hear me out. I been doin’ a lot of thinking,” Devon said.
He had everyone’s undivided attention. The Kid sat coolly, like it was the first time he heard of the plan. He couldn’t take control of the meeting. He had to remain seated and meek, and allow Devon to do what they’d rehearsed.
“We need decoys at this party,” he said.
“Decoys?” Eshon asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, someone to take our places there—people who look like us from a distance, but they ain’t us; ya feel me?”
It was still confusing.
“So you want people to die for us?” Eshon said.
“We’re gonna pay ’em.”
“So you want to pay muthafuckas to take our place and die for us?” Eshon asked. “And who’s gonna take the job to get paid to die?”
It sounded crazy.
“That’s where the ruse comes in. They won’t expect death but think it will be something else—reality TV maybe.”
Eshon and Brandy laughed.
“You think muthafuckas are stupid out here, Devon?” Brandy exclaimed.
“They do what we pay ’em to do,” he said.
“Obviously you didn’t think this shit all the way through,” Eshon said.
The Kid was watching his plan fall apart. The girls were skeptical. They were ready to walk away from it. He had to do something. Devon played his part well, but he wasn’t prepared for the backlash.
“I think it’s a great plan,” The Kid intervened.
“Really?” Eshon said. “And why’s that?”
“Look, if Maserati thinks we’re dead, then the threat is cleared, and it will be a lot easier for Devon and Papa John to get at him. Ghosts don’t kill people,” he said, sounding somewhat rational.
“Look, I don’t give a fuck who gotta die, as long as it ain’t me,” Brandy said. “And Jessica, I’m ready for that bitch.”
They all wanted to tear Jessica apart, especially Eshon. She wanted to wrap her hands around the traitor’s throat and squeeze tightly until there was no more breath inside her body. She wanted to kill her former friend with her bare hands. E&J Brandy bitches were no more. Jessica was a manipulative bitch that didn’t deserve life.
Eshon sighed. “So, how we supposed to do this? How we gonna get people—innocent people—to become decoys for us at this party?”
“Like I said, money and a con,” Devon said.
“You need to be more specific about the con you want to implement,” she replied.
“And I have a way,” he said.
They were all waiting to hear the con. The Kid sat and waited, too. He had to sell it to the crew first before they could sell it to anyone else, especially the decoys.
Devon had it memorized. The Kid steered him in the right direction earlier and tried to cover all the bases. Devon looked everyone in the eyes and said, “Everyone wants to get paid, right?”
“Not to die,” Eshon said.
“They ain’t gonna know they gonna die!” he repeated. “Look, we go out and find five muthafuckas that resemble us—”
“And tell ’em what?” Brandy asked.
“Look, y’all makin’ this shit more fuckin’ difficult than it already is,” Devon griped.
“That’s because it is difficult,” said Eshon.
“It ain’t fuckin’ difficult, a’ight? Shit gonna be simple as A, B, C,” Devon exclaimed.
Devon was losing control again. The Kid was watching him crumble under questioning. Devon looked at The Kid; he needed help with this one. It was going good so far, but Eshon and Brandy weren’t fools. They wanted to know every single detail of his plan. If it wasn’t right, then they weren’t with it. They were used to Kip having it all mapped out for them. He covered everything. He knew the ins and outs and predicted what could go wrong.
Devon wasn’t Kip—far from it.
“You can look for the men and women in shelters or troll the internet for those thirsty men and women who want to be seen. Give ’em a few dollars to be somewhere at a certain time, or find people that don’t have much to lose,” The Kid said, bringing the details to light. It made sense to them.
“That’s what I was gonna say, the homeless and other muthafuckas,” Devon spat.
The girls looked at him doubtfully, with that Uh-huh, okay—whatever look. The Kid to the rescue—subtly, though.
“Okay, we listening,” said Eshon.
Devon went on with the plan. It was to get five people that resembled them, get them cleaned up and dressed a certain way and bring them down to the club the night of the memorial party for Kip. The decoys had to completely fool Jessica.
Devon wanted everyone to wear red and white that night; it would make them stand out. The girls were in charge of doing the shopping. Papa John, Devon, and The Kid scavenged the hood for potential people that could become their decoys. They scurried around Harlem, then Manhattan, Midtown, the West Side, the East Side, and frantically searched for people that had the same features as them. There were homeless men everywhere, and not surprisingly, they found their first decoy to resemble Devon. The man had the same height, build, and complexion as Devon. He was a bit older, but he was perfect. They approached him in Washington Heights as he pushed a shopping cart of junk and dressed in tattered clothing. They asked him some questions. His name was Henry. He had been homeless for fifteen years. It was a long time.
“Listen Henry, how would you like to make some good money for one night?” The Kid asked him.
“How much money?” he asked The Kid.
The Kid smiled and replied, “Five hundred dollars.”
It was a lot of cash. More than he’d seen in over twenty years.
“I’m listening,” Henry replied.
“Good, come with us and let’s talk. I’m a man of my word, Henry, and you’ll get every penny.”
“Young man, I got trust issues. If you got dat kinda cash, then lemme see whatchu workin’ wit’.” Henry wasn’t raised by a fool. The Kid flashed a wad of cash and tossed Henry a twenty.
“Now let’s walk.”
They led Henry toward the minivan, leaving his shopping cart behind and took
him somewhere private.
The decoys for Papa John and The Kid were found two days later—men named Jake and Cedar. One was a bartender and the other a wannabe actor. Both were desperate to make five hundred dollars apiece. The Kid had the gift of gab, and he had these men believing he was in the TV and music industry—that he was there to help solve their problems—savior talent scout of some sorts.
Finding girls for Eshon and Brandy proved to be a little more complicated. The difficult part with Eshon and Brandy were the girls in the neighborhood came with questions. A girl named Mina who resembled Eshon came with question after question. What were they being paid to do? Why choose them? Who were they working for? What reality show? What was it about? Eshon tried to convince her that it was part of the reality show happening and she wanted Mina to be a part of it. They thought that flashing money would be enough to get these girls aboard, but it wasn’t quite so simple. These girls wanted to know the full 411, and Eshon’s I’s had to be dotted and her T’s crossed.
Though it took some strong convincing and a lot of talking, finally, Eshon got Mina and a girl named Mandy on board with the scheme. But they had to be careful and discreet with the ruse. Eshon told the girls that they had to sign a confidentiality agreement which meant to shut the fuck up about getting hired. If word leaked, then they would be fired. Mina and Mandy thought that they were about to be the next Cardi B and NeNe Leakes. To help sell the storyline, and just to see how stupid these dumb bitches were, Brandy had them act out an argument scene. Both girls got really into cursing each other out like they had years of beef.
Brandy and Eshon had to bite their tongues to keep from erupting in laughter. These girls were going for academy awards.
Eshon and Brandy went shopping in the city. With a lot of cash on hand, they went inside various clothing stores searching for the perfect outfits for themselves and their decoys for the approaching evening. Everything had to match up. They would have to buy two of everything, from the shoes down to the hairstyles. One mistake and everything could turn out to be deadly for them.
