Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  Panamanian Pete understood that money was the core to everything. It got things done, it brought results, and without it, there was no life. If you had enough of it, life could be good. If you had tons of it, then you could become a god. And Pete felt that he was a god. He wanted to see Maserati Meek go down himself. At first he put Rodney and G-Dep on it, but changed his mind once one of his informants came to him with reliable information about a place in Canarsie that was very valuable to Meek. Now Pete wanted to pull the trigger himself.

  Maserati Meek was known to move around a lot. He rarely stayed in the same location for more than a month, if that. He was like a nomad. He had real estate everywhere in and out of the city. It made him a slippery fish to find and to catch, and his money made him a man with the means to evaporate from society.

  The middle-class and commercial neighborhood looked like a ghost town in the middle of the night—there was an echo of silence. Panamanian Pete puffed on his cigar. Seated in the passenger seat, he clutched a chrome Desert Eagle, the Bentley of handguns. The house they were watching sat huddled in the middle of the block. There was a small porch, but no lights were seen outside or inside, and no activity so far. But Panamanian Pete’s stool pigeon was adamant that Meek would show at the address tonight. It was one of Meek’s major money locations. On a good day, two to three million dollars would be smuggled out of the residence. Some of it went to help fund terrorism. Only a handful of Meek’s people knew about the place, and most times Maserati Meek himself would show up to the address to supervise and make sure everything went as planned. When millions of dollars were to be moved, Meek was there. He trusted no one.

  “If this nigga don’t show tonight, I want y’all to put a bullet in Manny’s fuckin’ head. He assured me that tonight would be my night. I don’t wanna be wasting my fuckin’ time on bullshit,” Panamanian Pete growled at his killers.

  They nodded. It would be easy to do.

  Another hour went by. Cigarette and cigar smoke lingered in the vehicle. Pete was known to be a patient man, sometimes—but after three hours of sitting and waiting, he was starting to become agitated. Pete wasn’t the only one becoming agitated. The longer they waited, the more doubt started to fill their minds. Manny gave them false information. He told them 11 p.m., but it was nearing three in the morning. If there was a no show, Pete was ready to put four bullets into Manny’s head and chop his fuckin’ head off. His time was too valuable to waste.

  Finally, there was activity on the block. A black Escalade pulled up and double-parked outside the row homes. The passenger and rear doors opened and Maserati Meek exited the SUV flanked by three men, all of them African American and looking serious. It didn’t make any difference to Pete. A friend or associate of Meek’s was an enemy of his. Black, white, Middle Eastern, South Asian, they were poison to the city if they did business with Maserati Meek.

  Pete’s blood boiled when he finally laid his eyes on Meek. “Fuckin’ wigger,” he snarled.

  “You wanna go now?” one of Pete’s goons asked.

  “Nah, we wait for their exit. He comes out with the money, and then we kill two birds with one stone. I’m owed my eight hundred thousand plus interest,” he said.

  So far, they weren’t spotted. One of Meek’s men looked directly over at the minivan parked across the street and it didn’t set any alarms off. To everyone, it was another normal pickup in the neighborhood and every car belonged on the street. Smart though, doing it in the middle of the night: less eyes and less attention.

  Ten minutes went by. Panamanian Pete cocked back the Desert Eagle in his hand and readied himself for the carnage. He was the only one with a handgun. The others carried assault rifles. They were ready to implement overkill. The last cigarette was smoked and dowsed, and movement inside the van was limited. They wanted to keep the element of surprise.

  Nimbly, the sliding door was opened nice and slow to not attract attention. The interior lights had been shut off, shrouding the van with darkness, and Panamanian Pete and his murderous hooligans filed out of the minivan while crouched low. Two men stood guard outside. No doubt they were the muscle, and no doubt they were armed. Including Maserati Meek, three went inside. The cars and SUVs on the street gave the encroaching threat the cover they needed. To Pete it felt like old times again. His adrenaline was on high. His goons could have the others; he was focused on killing one man—Maserati Meek. Like ninjas cloaked in darkness, they perched in the shadows and waited to execute death.

  Meek was the second to exit the place. He walked between his two black thugs carrying two metal suitcases. Two, three million, it didn’t matter to Pete, he was taking it all—the money and their lives. Maserati Meek walked down the porch stairs with his security locked around him, headed toward the double-parked Escalade. As far as he could see, nothing was off during the pickup of his money. The night was quiet and the neighbors most likely asleep.

  Then it happened—abrupt and loud, gunfire started. Panamanian Pete and his bloodthirsty ruffians emerged from the darkness and opened fire on Meek and his men.

  Bratatat—Bratatat—Bratatat!

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  One man went down immediately—struck in the chest with multiple bullets that jerked him around violently. Maserati Meek and his men quickly took cover behind the nearest solid object.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” Meek screamed in panic.

  A barrage of bullets shattered car windows and slammed into cars, houses, and trees. Machine-gunfire lit up the night. The shooters were reckless. They didn’t care about anything but killing. Pete’s Desert Eagle exploded at Meek It missed him, but Pete was determined to kill the man.

  It didn’t take long for Meek to realize that his men were outgunned. Bullets whizzed by his head, splintering the tree he hid behind. His .9mm was no match for the machine guns. He noticed that his driver was still alive. He was about eight feet away from the SUV. If he didn’t move now, then he was a dead man. Another of his men went down swiftly; his brains were on the sidewalk. Meek huffed. He outstretched his arm around the tree and desperately returned gunfire.

  Bak! Bak! Bak . . . Bak! Bak!

  Hit or miss, he didn’t know. It was his feeble attempt at cover fire, trying to distract the shooters long enough to run for it. And he did. He took off running toward the truck like a bat out of hell with its wings on fire. He ran like he was Jessie Owens in the 1936 Olympics. Everything exploded around him; windshields and car material were being shredded. He was not going to die tonight.

  Panamanian Pete saw Meek fleeing frantically. He raised himself from behind the car, took sniper’s aim, and cut loose with the Desert Eagle—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  He saw Maserati Meek drop suddenly to the ground. It was a direct hit. There was blood, and Pete was sure that it was head shot. He wanted to run across the street and finish what he had started, but he heard the police sirens blaring from a distance. The police were coming. He couldn’t stick around. Maserati Meek had gone down, and Panamanian Pete presumed him dead. They all retreated to the minivan and sped away.

  Panamanian Pete felt he’d just closed his chapter of revenge. Maserati Meek was dead, right?

  22

  Checkmate!” Kid exclaimed, easily beating Eshon in seven moves.

  “Damn, again?” Eshon said, but it wasn’t shocking. She didn’t expect to beat him at chess. She was still learning the game from him, and he was a chess master.

  The Kid laughed. “Some advice when playing chess—when you see a good move, look for a better one.”

  “I don’t know how y’all play this game. It’s just so hard.”

  “It just takes time to learn the game, and it takes patience and a third eye to master it.”

  “You damn sure mastered it, Kid. You’re unbeatable,” she proclaimed.

  “When you love something, then you believe in it, and once you believe in it, then yo
u become the best at it.”

  Eshon stared at the chess pieces, looking transfixed by a sudden thought. Without looking at Kid, she said, “The only thing I’ve been good at was loving your brother and helping him rob people.”

  “You’re smart, Eshon.”

  “I’m not smart like you.”

  “Everybody’s born with an individual talent.”

  “And I never found mine. I’m just a cute girl from the projects now caught up in some crazy shit.”

  “You need to stop beating yourself up and stay focused, Eshon. This isn’t going to be your end—our end.”

  “But what next?” she said.

  “I don’t know what’s next. We just have to take things one day at a time. We have enough money to live comfortably for now, so we stay in New Rochelle and stay under the radar. Do you like the place?”

  “It’s nice. It’s definitely not the projects.”

  Motel life was becoming too confined, so Kid set out to find them a rental place somewhere in the area. He went online and searched for something convenient, affordable, and comfortable. He found a location in Oakwood Heights, New Rochelle. There was an elderly widow looking to rent out her house for $2,000 a month. It was a modest house, three bedrooms and two bathrooms. The Kid jumped at it.

  Mrs. Prestano was white and Italian. The Kid and Eshon met with the woman under the guise that they were a recently married couple looking for their first home. When the woman saw The Kid in a wheelchair, she was immediately sympathetic toward him. First impressions were lasting impressions, and The Kid and Eshon put on one hell of a show for the lady. She couldn’t deny a couple the place when one of the pair was handicapped. Kid paid her three months’ rent in advance.

  With their new place, The Kid advised Papa John and Devon to move someplace safe as well, until the death of Maserati Meek. He knew they couldn’t stay there with him and Eshon. They would bring too much attention to the place. It was a quiet and polite neighborhood. The last thing The Kid wanted was attention. Devon wasn’t fit for suburban life, and Papa John wasn’t either. So the two men continued to live out of motels.

  And Brandy suddenly became homesick.

  Eshon had always been good to The Kid, and he trusted her and was loyal to her. They had a special bond—a friendship that seemed unbending and unbreakable. Kip’s death had made their friendship even stronger. Away from it all—the violence, the murders, the concrete jungle of Harlem—things seemed normal for them. But how long would things stay normal?

  The Kid didn’t mind it. He allowed Eshon to assume the role that his brother had filled. She made sure he ate and kept the place clean. She had become his impromptu caretaker. They talked every night, sometimes for hours, and most times it was about Kip and Harlem.

  One night The Kid caught a glimpse of her bona fide outer beauty. She had just taken a shower, and the bathroom door to the lower floor was ajar. He happened to roll by and got a glimpse of her toweling off. He sat there mesmerized by her nudity. Her sexy curves and perky breasts were exceptional. How could Kip mistreat her sometimes, when every man in Harlem chased her and wanted to cherish her? he thought. She was definitely a man’s dream girl. Eshon was a beautiful woman with so much to offer a man. She was caring by nature, and though she could be rough around the edges, there was something special about her.

  She turned and caught his stare upon her. Eshon didn’t become startled by his clear perversion, but she simply smiled and politely closed the bathroom door. The Kid smiled himself and wheeled himself into the next room. Once again, if only she knew the truth—who he really was—a mobile killer like the others. What would her reaction be? Would her smile still be there? He was a lie to her, but the lie felt so good. Their friendship was so real. But would their friendship be decapitated if one day he stood up in front of her and walked her way? If he told her about the killings he committed, even killing his own Nana, would Eshon see him as a cold-blooded monster like Devon?

  They decided to play one more game of chess. The Kid wanted to teach her the game. He liked teaching others to play.

  “I wanted to teach Kip the game, but he never had time to play with me. He didn’t want to learn it,” he said.

  “He was always a busy man.”

  “He was. Always too busy for the two people that loved him the most.”

  Eshon tried to concentrate harder on this new game. She moved her knight recklessly. The Kid saw it was a damaging move and made her recant it. He explained why it was a reckless move. Every move she made, he criticized it.

  He picked up a pawn piece, and then said to her, “I see this chessboard as the world. Every move we make, there’s always someone or something trying to take us out—trying to knock us off the board. And you got to respect that some people were meant to be pawns and some meant to be kings and queens. But don’t underestimate the pawns. Though they have one simple move, they’re still able to take out higher opponents if they’re moved just right. And when these little bitches somehow make it to the other side of the board without being taken out, then they’re promoted. They can either become a queen, a rook, a knight, or a bishop. They just have to make it to the other side of the board, which most times, looks almost impossible with what they’re up against, but it can happen.”

  She listened. His parables were interesting. Her next move on the board was more thought out.

  The Kid smiled and said, “Nice one.”

  She smiled back.

  They continued to play. She was improving. Her next move was a challenging one, but it was still inferior to The Kid’s.

  “I’m a good teacher, I see,” he joked.

  She chuckled.

  Out of the blue, Kid’s cell phone rang. The caller I.D. identified Devon. Kid looked at Eshon and said, “Excuse me for a minute.”

  He pushed himself back from the table and answered the call. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We need to talk. Me and Papa John are outside,” Devon said.

  “A’ight, come inside.”

  Eshon wasn’t too surprised to see Devon and Papa John come into the new house. Lately, they would come over to see Kid. They all would disappear into a room to talk. She would be left out. It was odd to her. Why were they meeting with Kid? What were they talking about? Were they chatting about capers? It was bewildering to her—two cold-hearted killers now socializing with a chess champion. Kid was a humble man—a good guy. She figured it was nothing. With Kip dead, hanging out with his two best friends was probably the only closure Kid had in his life. And besides Eshon, there was no one else to reminisce about Kip with but Devon and Papa John. They knew him best, too.

  Devon closed the door to the bedroom. The Kid looked up at the two men, and by the look on their faces, something had gone down.

  “What’s up? What’s going on?” The Kid asked.

  Devon looked at Kid and said, “Maserati Meek was hit.”

  “What?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Is he dead?” The Kid asked in anticipation.

  “Don’t know, but he got hit up the other night in Canarsie at one of his money houses. Word is, he had about two mill on him,” Devon said.

  “Shit!”

  It was a lot of money. The Kid wished he had that nigga’s money in his possession. But if Meek was coming out of one of his places with two million easy, there was no telling how much more money there was out there. The Kid wanted it all. It was owed to him since Meek took his brother’s life.

  “Who went after him?” The Kid asked.

  “Not sure. It could be Panamanian Pete or some other niggas out there itching to blow his fuckin’ head off, like me.”

  “First things first. We need to know if he survived the attack.”

  Devon and Papa John nodded.

  “And second, find out who was responsible for the attack. Whoever
got that close to Meek might be of value to us. You know what they say: The enemy of my enemy could be a friend to me.”

  “And what if it’s Panamanian Pete? He will never be a friend. We robbed that nigga of eight hundred grand and killed his peoples,” Papa John said.

  “But to my understanding, he’s blaming Maserati Meek for it all. That makes us clear of any wrongdoing toward him.”

  “It’s still risky to reach out to that nigga,” Papa John advised. “I don’t trust him, and I never will.”

  The men talked for several minutes and then they left the room. The Kid wheeled himself out of the bedroom and noticed Eshon lingering in the hallway. Papa John and Devon said their goodbyes to her and left the house.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked him.

  “Everything’s fine,” he replied. “We were just talking.”

  Yeah, about what? she wondered.

  “It’s getting late. I’m going to bed,” he said.

  “You need any help?”

  “Nah, I’m okay. I can handle it.”

  The Kid wheeled himself into the bedroom on the first floor. He closed the door behind him. Eshon was left with questions on her mind, but she retreated to her own bedroom to get some much-needed rest.

  23

  The Manhattanville projects looked like a dystopian society. So many were homeless because of the bombing—their normal lives were suddenly ripped away from them. Many others were being arrested for disorderly conduct. Folks were sick and tired of being mistreated and lied to. They felt dehumanized. They were the victims of a terrorist attack; however, the police were treating them like they were terrorists themselves. There was heated tension between the police and the people, and scuffles broke out on the streets multiple times a day.