Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  “Ooooh, so good . . . you feel so good,” he moaned.

  They stared in each other’s eyes and saw the intensity. Dina paused for a few seconds, letting the dick simmer inside of her. She released a naughty grin as Papa John lay underneath her, breathing in anticipation. Everything about her felt so good—and so right. He no longer thought about his troubles with Jessica and Maserati Meek. He was high from the sex she was giving him.

  She started to grind against him again and again. He held her hips. She rode and rode until she squirted in an intense orgasm from the passionate friction. She got hers and continued to ride Papa John’s dick until he soon got his too—squirting his semen into the condom as his orgasm induced a powerful shudder. It was so good that he cooed like a pigeon as his toes curled up and he fidgeted underneath her like he was an epileptic having seizures. He quickly became spent after a good nut. She collapsed on the bed beside him.

  The two had pillow talk as they lay nestled against each other. Dina’s head was against his chest, and she heard his heart beating. Her body was soft like silk, and her long legs were warm around him like a campfire.

  “I so needed this,” said Papa John.

  They smoked another blunt. The time was moving into the early morning, two hours before sunrise. He looked into her eyes and though she wasn’t truly his, he felt he could tell her anything.

  “I was there,” he suddenly uttered.

  “You were where?”

  “I was at the club the night it blew up.”

  “What?”

  “That suicide bombing at club Sane, it had nothing to do with politics. It had something to do wit’ me,” he said.

  Dina was baffled.

  “They want to kill us, Dina. They were willing to blow up an entire club to kill me and my crew.”

  It wasn’t the type of pillow talk that she had been looking forward to, but it was startling news. Dina couldn’t help but wonder what kind of nigga she had in her bed that someone would bomb an entire nightclub to kill him.

  10

  Eshon lit her cigarette, inhaled, and then exhaled. She took comfort in the passenger seat of The Kid’s van in the hotel parking lot. It was going to be another beautiful day, but her days were being spent watching her back, carrying a pistol for her protection, and plotting revenge on the people who had tried to kill her. Never again would she sit inside a city precinct and allow herself to be questioned unless she was under arrest. Her time there was a nightmare, but it was useful. She had come back with the information they needed. Now Devon was ready to make his move—and he was crazy enough to do something stupid.

  Sitting there alone and thinking about everything that had transpired over the past weeks, Eshon sighed heavily, and a few tears trickled from her eyes. She thought about Kip, like she always did. Everything was different without him. Devon was a lunatic who probably would get them all killed. She missed Kip’s leadership. She missed his strong eyes and his voice, and his assertive demeanor. She always felt secure around him. But now what would tomorrow have in store for her?

  She took another puff from the cancer stick and had more thoughts about her future without Kip. She blew out the smoke and felt an uneasiness that she’d never felt before. When Kip was running things, everything had gone smoothly, or close to it. Yes, there had been a few hiccups down the road, but Kip had always had a way of smoothing it out. Now, these hiccups were becoming nonstop, and a lot more dangerous.

  The sudden knock on the passenger window startled Eshon. She almost jumped out of her seat and reached for the .380 she had on her. But there was nothing to worry about. It was Brandy coming to join her.

  “Damn bitch, don’t be sneaking up on me like that,” Eshon shouted.

  “I’m sorry. You okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay.”

  “Open the door let me inside.”

  Eshon pressed the switch and the doors unlocked. Brandy walked around to the driver’s side and slid into the seat. The past twenty-four hours had been rough. Their hair was becoming undone, edginess had consumed them, and they hadn’t had a good night’s sleep yet.

  “Can I get some of that?” Brandy asked.

  Eshon passed the cigarette to her friend. Brandy took a few pulls herself and released. They were silent for a moment, looking despondent. The parking lot was swelled with cars on a clear and warm day. Brandy had her own issues and worries. Like everyone, she put on a brave face, but this bombing—and so many dead—knocked her off guard and made her feel guilty. Her hardcore attitude had been altered into fault and remorse. She was with the plan to have five innocent people killed for what seemed like the greater good, but now hundreds of people were dead. Would everything be traced back to them? They’d had nothing to do with the bombing—not directly—but now with the FBI involved and sniffing around, what would the consequences be for them? Would they all get blamed too? Would they look like terrorists in the eyes of America?

  Brandy passed the cigarette back to her friend. She breathed out and looked her friend’s way. “Let’s just go.”

  “What?” Eshon didn’t know what she was talking about. “Go where?”

  “I’m sayin’, we have no ties to anyone here, so let’s get our shit and leave the city. This is not our fight; it’s the boys’. We can just walk away and start over somewhere else.”

  Eshon leaned forward in the seat. “Start over? Start over with what? And where, Brandy? My life is here. All I know is this city. Harlem is home and it will always be home.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Kip is gone!”

  Eshon didn’t need to be reminded of that. “I know that.”

  “You think we can go back to Harlem after this, if we survive this shit? What our lives used to be, it all changed the night at that club. We at war, Eshon, and it’s gonna get even uglier. I don’t think I’m ready to see how ugly it’s gonna get.”

  “What about Jessica, huh? I’m supposed to give her a pass after what she did?”

  “She’ll get dealt wit’.”

  “I want her to pay for everything she did. We had her back since day one, and she betrays us by tryin’ to have us killed.”

  “I want that bitch dead, too. But she’s locked up right now. And who’s to know if she’ll get out soon? And if she do, what makes you think Maserati Meek won’t be there waiting for her wit’ an army of his own?”

  Eshon frowned. She never thought she would see the day that Brandy wanted to back down from a fight—no matter what kind of fight it was. The disrespect from Jessica was blatant. How could she let it go? How could she forgive that bitch? Eshon couldn’t rest until she saw that bitch dead. Jessica was a terrorist too. She was responsible for all the lives lost that night at the club. She arranged everything. She knew what was going to happen. There was no way Eshon was going to allow her to live and breathe the same air on earth as her. She needed to pay for her sins.

  She needed to die.

  “Brandy, if you wanna leave, then leave. I’m not running. I’m staying!” Eshon said with conviction. “You don’t understand the hate I got inside for this ho. She’s fuckin’ the weird nigga that killed Kip and then tried to kill me—to kill us. All of us! And over what? Some dick?”

  There was no changing Eshon’s mind. Brandy saw it on her face. Eshon had that look that said she would rather die trying to implement justice for Kip than run like a coward to a different state. It almost felt like she had Kip inside of her.

  Brandy sighed. “Fuck it, if you staying, then I’m staying.”

  Hearing that made Eshon smile. She needed Brandy around. She needed a true friend in her life, and Brandy was it. Where would she be without her?

  “Thanks,” Eshon said.

  “Fuck it, I’d rather die side-by-side with a friend than live separate and die alone,” Brandy said.

  The two ladies continued to share a
cigarette and talk. They were scared, not knowing what tomorrow held for them. But they had each other’s back. They were going to succeed in vengeance or die trying. Brandy’s nerves were still rattled—going up against men with the knowledge and mindset to blow up buildings and kill anyone that got in their way was daunting. They were up against something a lot more evil than they’d ever seen. Brandy prepared herself for the worst—saying, fuck it, they couldn’t live forever.

  ***

  There were two hard knocks at the hotel door. Devon recoiled from the bed and grabbed his pistol and cocked it back. He glanced at The Kid, Eshon, and Brandy. They looked nervous. Papa John was still MIA, no doubt laid up with some bitch somewhere. If it had been him at the door, he would have called first to let them know he was on the way back.

  Devon took the initiative to approach the door and see who’d come knocking—friend or foe. With his silver Berretta in hand and by his side, he cautiously stood at the door, looked through the peephole, and asked, “Yo, who is it?”

  “It’s Twitter,” the knocker said.

  Hearing the name, Devon relaxed and his uneasiness faded. He opened the door and allowed the man inside. Eshon, Brandy, and The Kid were clueless as to who he was. Twitter? What kind of character was he? The Kid hated being clueless, but he had to remain quiet and allow Devon to take charge like he was told to do.

  Twitter glided into the room with a natural smile looking lost in time—a Blaxploitation character from the ’70s. He was a black man of average height and had a neat Afro with larger-than-life sideburns. He was impeccably dressed in a light leather jacket in the month of June and a black silk shirt with the collar wide open, showing off a thin gold chain bearing a gold cross. There was a gold tooth in the upper right corner of his mouth, diamond earrings in both ears, a gold Rolex around his wrist, and pinky rings on both hands. He looked cheesy and sharp at the same time. He carried a large black duffel bag.

  Twitter greeted Devon with dap and placed the duffel bag on the bed.

  The Kid looked at Devon, and Devon said, “He’s a good friend. I gave him a call earlier. I forgot about it.”

  “Yeah, me and Devon go way back,” Twitter said. “And I’m sorry about Kip. He was a good dude—my nigga fo’ sure. I’m gonna miss him.”

  Eshon and Brandy were on the sidelines thinking, What part of the game is this? Kip had never mentioned him. Twitter saw the confusion on their faces and made it his personal business to introduce himself.

  He shook the ladies’ hands gently and considerately said, “Like Devon said, my name is Twitter. Why they call me Twitter? Because I got many followers for my business, baby. I’m everywhere, and now I’m here, at your service. I trend faster than the strike of lightning, and once I strike, like J.J., I’m dynamite.”

  The ladies found him charming and amusing. But why was he there? He spoke in riddles about himself—and though it was cute, they didn’t have time to laugh and find it cute.

  “And still, y’all look at me like I’m a calculus problem, so let me further explain myself, because show and tell is better than chatting and explaining,” Twitter coolly proclaimed.

  He went to the duffel bag and unzipped it. He reached inside and immediately started pulling out guns and placing them on the bed for everyone to see.

  “I sell guns, ladies . . . and gentleman. But not just any guns. The best ones—military upgrades. The guns that do not come cheap, you feel me?”

  Before they knew it, there was an assortment of handguns and several submachine guns on the bed. It was the type of firepower that they needed; the ones that could put holes through Kevlar and pierce through steel.

  “I got the Smith and Wesson XVR 460 Magnum—highest claimed velocity in a big-bore production gun. I got the Desert Eagle .50 caliber, my personal favorite. It’s a fuckin’ predator out there, the most powerful handgun out there,” Twitter proclaimed.

  He pointed to the third handgun and said, “And then there’s this baby here, the Ruger Super Redhawk. Bullets fly at just under 1,200 feet per second. This baby right here, it has speed and power, and it will stop just about anything in its tracks. Now the few machine guns I do have, we talking about Miami Vice type of hardware: Uzis and the Heckler and Koch.”

  “You definitely know your guns,” The Kid said.

  “A man has to know his business, his merchandise. You know it, you love it, and you buy it. The rules of business.”

  Everything on the bed was impressive, and if they were going up against a terrorist like Meek, they would need the best money could buy.

  “How much for the entire lot?” Devon asked.

  “Now you’re speaking my math. For you and the memory of Kip, I’ll let it all go for fifteen thousand.”

  It was a big number.

  “Do we need it all?” Eshon asked.

  “When it comes to survival, sweetheart, you never know what you may need,” Twitter replied.

  Devon agreed completely. But the streets were hot with confusion and madness, and the money wasn’t coming in fast enough. They had to cut back on a few things, including guns.

  “How about half then?” The Kid said. “We’ll take seven thousand worth of your best weapons.”

  “Half, huh?” Twitter replied.

  “Yes, seven thousand dollars.”

  Twitter thought about it, and then smiled The Kid’s way and said, “You know what, I’m cool with it. Like I said, Kip was a good friend of mines, and I honor his memory by doing good business with his peoples.”

  Devon picked out the guns they would need. He reached for the Desert Eagle and the Smith and Wesson, and also grabbed several Uzis. For him, it was game time. He loved his guns. He was eager to try them out on his enemies.

  Twitter smiled once more, his gold tooth shining, and said to Devon and the group, “Once again, it’s always good doing business with you, Devon. You continue to make me money like always. Ladies, until we meet again, hopefully under better circumstances. I gotta sign out now, and on to the next venue.”

  He kissed the backs of the girls’ hands, and his charm was flowing like Niagara Falls. With his duffel bag of guns in hand, Twitter made his exit from the room with his pockets filled with a wad of hundred- and fifty-dollar bills. Devon was already loading bullets into the .50 cal. He said to the group, “We got a bitch to kill out there and a terrorist to slaughter, and I’m not tryin’ to see either one of them live another fuckin’ day. They wanna blow shit up, then we gonna fuck them up!”

  11

  Maserati Meek was somewhat concerned about Jessica as he sat naked in the bedroom alone and puffed on his cigar. The television was on, and the nightclub bombing was the chief subject matter in the news. It had been twenty-four hours since the deadly incident, and the death toll was still climbing. Now it was officially 205 confirmed dead. An impromptu memorial for the dead had been arranged near the bombing site—lit candles, dozens of flowers, teddy bears, pictures, and sympathy cards were steadily multiplying on the city sidewalk. Dozens of concerned citizens and mourners gathered near the location now called “ground zero.” The careful removal of rubble and debris would turn up bodies, and sometimes body parts—a leg here, an arm there, torsos, and numerous limbs. Poor souls, they never saw it coming. A night out of fun and partying transitioned into another disastrous nightmare in NYC—one that the city would never forget.

  Meek stared at his work with apathy. He cared nothing for the dead Americans. What was tragic in America’s eyes was a recurring thing in his part of the world. The American government committed mass murders in the Islamic world daily. Innocent men, women, and children were slaughtered by their continuous drone attacks from above—indirectly striking a town or city from afar like cowards. Or implementing havoc and fear with their ground troops and their assault rifles—snipers picking off whoever they assumed was a threat to their military. Where was justice?
<
br />   The bloodshed in the Middle East was a common thing—like a car accident in the states, they were expected. But in the States, two-hundred or more souls are killed, and the Americans cry out like children and vow for justice and retribution. They wanted punishment—but who would punish the Americans for their crimes against his people? Though the bombing was an action against his enemies, not a direct act of terrorism against their society, Maserati Meek felt vindicated. So, let the Americans cry out and mourn their dead. His people were in mourning every day.

  Meek doused the cigar in the ashtray nearby and stood up. His penis was flaccid, but still impressive. He muted the TV. He had heard enough. There was no doubt the FBI would be vigorously hunting for terrorists—waiting for some foreign group to claim responsibility for the bombing—most likely ISIS. But there would be no group claiming the glory. Though it was tempting to take the glory—to become the light and envy of others—Meek was no fool. He was about money, revenge, and business. With one set of his enemies dead, now he could focus on eradicating Panamanian Pete, and from there on, expanding his wealth and empire.

  He walked to the bedroom window naked and peered out into the street. Things were quiet in his part of town. No sirens, no cops, no destruction—wealth had provided him a slice of paradise. The affluent Brooklyn neighborhood provided some of the best and most expensive homes in the city, as well as privacy.

  He thought about Jessica. Twenty-four hours and still no word from her. She wasn’t answering her phone or replying to his text messages. Was she blown to bits? Maserati Meek deemed that impossible. She had contacted him and informed him of her departure from the club. But could she have forgotten something, gone back, and then boom—too late?

  There was a part of him that felt he should have included her in his plan. Told her about the bomb—the suicide bomber. Warned her about the mass destruction that was about to come. It would have been fair, right? But would she have been willing to accept it? Would she have been able to deal with the death of hundreds on her conscience? Jessica wasn’t one of them. She hadn’t given her allegiance to Allah. Most likely, she would have never shown up at the club had she known.