Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  “Agent Seitz here, what’s the reason for this phone call?”

  “My name is Detective Hint from East Brunswick PD, and I’m calling because we have a body here—a Jane Doe—and I think she’s the woman the FBI has been searching for. She might be Jessica Hernandez.”

  Immediately, the Jersey detective had Agent Seitz’s ear. The news reached the primary detectives on the case and Spielberg, and within two hours of the phone call, they were arriving at the East Brunswick Municipal building. The FBI in the area was a big deal. They walked with certainty into the building, and Spielberg was right behind them, riding their coattails, watching and learning. He was critical to them because he was the arresting officer of Jessica at the tunnel. He’d had words with her. He knew what she looked like. He was there to identify her body—to make sure it was her in the morgue.

  They soon met with Detective Hint, a tall, slim white male with piercing blue eyes and a sandy goatee. He was dressed sharply. The conversation between him and the agents was brief. They were guided to the city morgue, and inside the cold, gray room, the medical examiner pulled a body out of the freezer. She removed the white sheet and presented to them a naked Hispanic female that had been shot in the head, which left her face a little disfigured.

  “We found her a few days ago on the side of the road—Helmetta Boulevard. It’s a secluded place in the park. A jogger discovered her early in the morning. She had no I.D. on her, and her fingerprints weren’t in AFIS,” said Detective Hint.

  Officer Spielberg instantly knew it was her. She was a pretty girl, but now she was cold and her face contorted with death. Despite that bitch that she was, he was sad to see her like this.

  “Yes, it’s the same girl I arrested the other day. It’s Jessica,” Officer Spielberg confirmed.

  “Shit!” an agent uttered with frustration.

  Someone had gotten to her before they could. It was a disappointment to them. Whoever these people were, they were definitely covering their tracks. Officer Spielberg couldn’t help feeling accountable somewhat—if only they had gotten to her before her arraignment, maybe she would still be alive. But there was still someone else to track down—Eshon. Now it was essential that they find her before she was killed too.

  The medical examiner covered the body and the men left the room. They smoked a cigarette outside the building, talked amongst themselves, and then piled back into the car to drive back to the city. Next move, find Eshon Williams. They barely had a description of her, and they couldn’t put out an APB or go to the media. They typed her name into the computer, and nothing came back. Eshon Williams had no pictures, no warrants, and no priors—nothing. So far she was clean. It was frustrating, like hitting a brick wall, and there was no way around it.

  They needed this girl alive. If she knew that they were looking for her, chances were she might run. So the feds had a few tricks up their sleeves, and one was tapping Brandy’s cell phone. Trick number two? Surveillance. Eshon was out there, and maybe Brandy might lead them to her. It was one reason why they didn’t detain her. They needed her free—she would be their trail of breadcrumbs.

  While driving back to NYC, Officer Spielberg was quiet with his attention fixed on nothing in particular out the passenger window. His mind was spinning with thoughts. Then it dawned on him—the girl that came to the precinct looking for her friend—looking for Jessica. Though she’d said her name was Stephanie Brown, he believed the woman was actually Eshon.

  In a way, it all started to add up to him. But something was wrong. He had to piece it all together—he had to, and he wouldn’t rest until he had Eshon in his clutches and got to the bottom of everything. For terrorists to attack a nightclub, and then a project building in Harlem—it didn’t make any sense to him. Why? Why these two locations, when the city had so many other prime targets that would make a stronger statement?

  Maybe this was personal, he thought. It had to be. He had to look at things from a different angle, and Eshon was his starting point.

  25

  The black Tahoe stopped in front of an extravagant-looking brownstone on 88th Street, the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The home harmonized perfectly with the affluent area, which had a reputation of being the city’s cultural and intellectual hub. Columbia University was located at the north end of the neighborhood. The residents there were upper-class and prestigious. What was happening in Harlem seemed like it was many miles away—a completely different world from theirs.

  It was a beautiful sunny summer day with temperatures soaring to a blistering ninety-five degrees. Air conditioners ran rampantly throughout the neighborhood as people tried to beat the heat.

  The city block was tranquil as Amir sat behind the steering wheel smoking a cigarette and waiting. Today, he would be an escort for a pretty girl. While Maserati Meek was healing in Westchester, Amir was his eyes and ears on the streets, and his errand boy too.

  Ten minutes went by; she was taking forever to exit the home. Amir finished the cigarette and flicked it out the window. Shortly, the door to the brownstone opened and a lovely looking black woman named Cindy was making her exit.

  Amir looked at her with admiration. She was a beautiful woman with long, silky black hair and hazel eyes. Dressed in a printed dress with her long, gleaming legs erect in a pair of studded gladiator wedges, she glided down the concrete stairs with class and style clutching her Gucci handbag.

  She climbed into the backseat of the Tahoe. Amir greeted her, but she ignored him. He smirked. She was strikingly beautiful, but a bitch. Her only interest was Maserati Meek. She was yearning to see him again. Amir put the truck into drive and slowly drove away. Cindy sat back comfortably in the backseat and looked out the window.

  Forty-five minutes later, they arrived in Westchester, where Maserati Meek was convalescing in the doctor’s home. The doctor had left town, and Meek had the place all to himself. He trusted the location. It was unknown to many, and off the grid. He had no ties to the real estate and he felt it would be impossible for anyone to track him there. In the bedroom, he had just finished his prayer, saying, “As Salamu Alaykum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu.” He turned his head to the left and repeated the same phrase.

  Amir walked in with Cindy. She was overflowing with eagerness. She’d met Meek in an upscale lounge where he spoiled her with high-priced champagne and first-class conversation. Their chemistry was strong. Maserati Meek’s infatuation for black women was potent and no secret, and Cindy was something to keep him occupied during his healing. She had all the ingredients that he liked: black, sexy, curvy and somewhat urban. Cindy smelled the money and power in him, and she didn’t hesitate to give him the time of day, and soon, a piece of her.

  With Jessica missing in action—and an assumed snitch—he needed a new and more loyal bitch in his life. And his body didn’t just need physical healing; it needed some sexual healing too.

  Maserati Meek emerged from the bedroom shirtless with his bandages exposed. He had in his hand a bottle of Grey Goose. He took a quick swig from it. The alcohol helped him cope with the pain, but sex would help him feel alive again.

  “She’s here, like you asked,” Amir said.

  “Thank you, Amir,” Meek said.

  Amir nodded. He was excused from the room. He pivoted and left.

  Cindy smiled at her newfound friend. “I love the place . . . classy.”

  “It belongs to a friend of mine,” said Meek.

  “Well, your friend has some very nice taste.”

  “I would think I have good taste too,” he said.

  “You picked me, right?” she replied.

  Meek approached closer.

  Cindy couldn’t help but notice the dressing wrapped around his arm and shoulder. “What happened?” she asked.

  “A misunderstanding, eh. Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Today, I have fun with you. You are my worry, eh.”


  Cindy continued to smile. “Well, let us both worry then.”

  It was unambiguous to her that she was there for sex—to keep him company. They locked eyes. Her beauty was enticing. She removed her dress and shoes, causing Meek to become fascinated by her beautiful flesh. Her nipples were dark and big like nickels. Her body was flawless with no tattoos.

  “You are a very beautiful woman,” he said. “Come closer. I can’t experience paradise from where you stand.”

  She stepped closer to him, and Meek pulled her into his arms. The joy started. Their kissing was intense, with Meek tasting the softness of her lips, his tongue exploring further into her mouth. Their tongues danced together. He then kissed her body, her neck, her shoulders, and her stomach. He tasted every bit of her. He could smell her lust.

  Her breathing became animated as he cupped her breast, pinched her nipple, and fingered her pussy. He continued to caress her body, feeling his manhood erecting harder than steel itself.

  Cindy lowered herself in front of him, taking the dick into her hands, and started to stroke him nice and slow. She was no stranger to oral sex, including deep throat, and she was impressed by his package. He watched as she wrapped her lips around his dick, taking it all in gently—watching her lips slide back and forth over his dick, and seeing her suck on the tip like a lollipop. The action emitted a moan from Meek. He cooed. He enjoyed it. She was no Jessica, but she damn sure came close.

  Soon, their action toured into the bedroom, where Meek was eager to perform one of his pastime pleasures on her. Cindy’s juices were raining liberally. Her clit was exposed and Meek lapped her juices. The sexual deed made her moan and quiver witlessly as she was swiftly enveloped by pleasure. Cindy grabbed her legs and held them back, giving her man excessive access to her most private places. Meek licked her soft clit, sucked her pussy, and fingered her simultaneously.

  “Oh shit! Please don’t stop . . . oh God . . . oh God!”

  Maserati Meek was the kind of man that liked to keep his woman on edge. He kept her aroused and horny, begging for more. With a glazed look in her eyes, she wanted to be fucked by him ASAP.

  Maserati Meek positioned himself between her legs and thrust inside of her. Her legs wrapped around him and she pulled him closer to her by grabbing his hips. The pain no longer registered in Meek’s body. Pussy and alcohol made any pain suddenly go numb. He crowded her pussy with his dick, as Cindy gasped and felt waves of pleasure consume her. Missionary, he pushed her legs back to her chest and drove his dick deeper into her. Cindy was as flexible as a rubber band. He fucked her deep, slow, and then hard. He could feel her pussy grabbing his dick tightly and the sensation of her wetness enveloping him.

  “I’m gonna come!” she announced.

  Their heated sex continued with them changing positions. She climbed on top of him and crashed her pussy down on his hard dick. She never knew a Middle Eastern man could fuck her like this. It felt like he was on something—was it Viagra, cocaine?—whatever it was, she didn’t want him to come down from it anytime soon. Every moment he was inside of her was absolute bliss. She screamed out and rode him like a champion. He reached up and squeezed her tits, and again, pinched her nipples.

  “Fuck me!” she cried out. “Fuck me! Fuck me!”

  He looked up at her and for a split second he saw Jessica’s face looking back down at him. It freaked him out for a minute, but he shook it off. Was it guilt? No, it was just a flashing moment. The thought was immediately eradicated from his mind.

  “I’m gonna come,” Cindy cried out again.

  She milked his dick. She feverishly rocked her hips back and forth while on top of him and his dick pulled in and out of her with her pussy throbbing. Soon, they both reached the point of no return—exploding together.

  She wasn’t in any rush to leave. Maserati Meek welcomed her company. His goons were boring him and his wounds were barbing his skin. Sex with her also made him forget for the moment about the two million dollars he lost.

  They lingered on the king size bed. The TV was on, and like regular, Maserati Meek watched the news. The update on the bombings became habitual. While watching TV, Cindy toyed with his nipples while nuzzled against his chest. Her body was completely satisfied. Meek turned from one news channel to another. There wasn’t much news at first. But then breaking news—the girl the FBI had been desperately searching for was found dead in New Jersey.

  “The FBI search for Jessica Hernandez has ended. She was found dead in a New Jersey park early Tuesday morning. A passing jogger discovered her body with a gunshot wound to her head. So far, the authorities have no suspects in custody, but the search continues for the people responsible for two city bombings in the past week,” the anchorwoman proclaimed.

  Maserati Meek was completely taken aback by the news. Jessica was dead? He removed himself from Cindy’s tender grasp, sitting upright, and fixed his attention on the television. He turned up the volume. He listened intently to every word out of the anchorwoman’s mouth.

  Who shot her? Who had gotten to her? And what did this mean?

  Meek was troubled by the news. He felt the man responsible for Jessica’s murder was Panamanian Pete. What other enemies did he have out there? He believed Kid and his crew to be dead, killed in the club explosion.

  Then a thought briefly crossed his mind. If she was dead, then it wasn’t possible that she was snitching or avoiding him. He’d overreacted and killed her family along with dozens of people over nothing. He sat there in a minor trance.

  Cindy noticed the change in his demeanor. “Did you know her?”

  He didn’t look at her, but kept staring at the TV and nonchalantly responded, “No. She was no one special.”

  He couldn’t dwell on it. What was done was done. But it wouldn’t be finally done until he tortured and murdered Panamanian Pete. And then it would be done.

  26

  The Kid moved his rook on the chessboard and hollered, “Checkmate!” He then smiled.

  His opponent was shocked. He didn’t see the move coming. He lost. How did he lose?

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Hey, it was a good game,” Kid said.

  The old head stared at the move made by The Kid and scratched his head. Mr. Cots was one of the best players at the YMCA in New Rochelle, but Kid took him out like a gladiator in the arena, swords swinging, blood gushing, and heads being decapitated—no mercy. The Kid had applied the box mate move, having the side with the king and rook box in the bare king to the corner or edge of the board. It was a move The Kid knew well.

  “You wanna play again?” The Kid asked.

  “I don’t know how you beat me.”

  “You leave your left side too open,” said Kid.

  “Now you gonna teach me how to play chess?”

  “I’m just saying, a pro like me saw your moves coming a mile away.”

  “A pro . . . yeah, okay. You just a little nigga that got lucky,” the old head griped.

  The man subtly passed Kid a fifty-dollar bill. It was money well earned. The old heads always had a hard time with being beaten by a young kid in a wheelchair.

  The Kid smiled. He felt like his old self again, playing chess and winning. Resuming his former life, or what was left of it, felt good. If he wasn’t playing chess at the Y a few blocks from his new home, then he was playing video games at home. He was behaving more like a nerdy gamer than a man who killed people, ran drugs, and was at war with a major crime boss.

  The Kid had made the YMCA his new hangout. He loved the company and there were some decent chess players there. He still held the title of being unbeaten, though. Playing again got his mind off his troubles, and it helped him heal from his brother’s death.

  The Kid sat in front of the chessboard. He was anxious to play again. Quickly, word was spreading through the YMCA that there was a chess prodigy in the place. It felt l
ike St. Nicholas Park in Harlem all over again. The Kid spent hours at the Y, regularly playing chess and chatting. He got to meet new people, and soon found out who was who in the new neighborhood.

  “I’ll play with you,” a young girl said, taking a seat opposite him.

  “You know how to play?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t,” she replied smugly.

  “Okay, you have a point. But to give you fair warning, I’m a beast.”

  She was unperturbed by his comment.

  She was short, petite, and cute with high cheekbones, long lashes, long black hair, dark ebony skin, and brown eyes. Her outfit was simple—a white T-shirt and blue jeans with old Nikes, and it all looked like hand-me-downs.

  “You have the honor, since you’re unbeatable so far,” she said.

  “No, pretty ladies first,” he replied.

  No smile. The girl already seemed focused. She moved her pawn, and Kid moved his. Two more pawns were moved, then a knight by her and a knight by him. Kid moved his queen, and she maneuvered with her bishop. Their game was quick. It looked like they were both on a time limit. In her first five moves, Kid could already see that she could really play. In fact, she was challenging him.

  They were prepared for each other. Pieces were being removed from the board and their style of play started to gain notice from other folks lingering nearby. A few people stood around the table watching the match. Finally, someone was giving Kid a run for his money.

  Kid took her queen, but it didn’t matter. Both her rooks were fierce, and her bishop was on the attack. They were locked in battle, their eyes fixed on the board and nothing else. She moved her knight, and Kid was taken aback by the move, but he didn’t falter. He came stronger with a move of his own, and his queen was ruling the board.

  Fifteen minutes into their match and the board was sparse with pieces—causalities of war. The Kid lost both his knights and his rook, all pawns were gone from both sides, and soon it was over.