Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  The young girl quietly uttered, “Checkmate,” and it was unbelievable. The Kid had finally lost a match. He was stunned. She had trapped him in a strategy called the Blackburne’s mate, a rare method of checkmating.

  Kid was in awe. He stared at the board, finally on the losing end, and realized where he went wrong. The girl’s bishop had confined his king’s movement by operating from a distance, while her knight and her other bishop were operating in close range.

  The people looking on were stunned too.

  “Wow, he lost. He’s actually a mortal,” someone joked about Kid.

  “Damn, you’re good. You were able to beat me, which is very rare.”

  “You wanna play again?” she asked nonchalantly.

  The Kid smiled. “I had enough for today. It’s getting late.”

  “What’s the matter, you scared?”

  The Kid chuckled. He was never scared. He’d spent six hours at the YMCA. He needed to rest his mind and body.

  “Next time, I promise you,” he said.

  “Okay, fine with me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jackie.”

  “Kidar. They call me Kid.”

  “I know,” she said quickly.

  “So, you heard about me and decided to take on the best?”

  “I just wanted to play chess.”

  She was aloof. The Kid wanted to have a conversation with her. She was attractive, and she was different. She intrigued him.

  Jackie stood up. The Kid wheeled himself away from the table. “Are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Besides you, there’s no other competition here.”

  “Well, can I walk with you?”

  She stared mockingly at his wheelchair.

  “You know what I mean. If you wanna be literal, can I roll with you?”

  “It’s a free country. You can go anywhere you want,” she said.

  She rotated abruptly and walked off. Still no direct invitation from her, but Kid didn’t care; he followed her to the exit.

  They left the YMCA. It was dusk outside and still very warm. She went left and he followed behind her. She was five steps ahead of him, almost power walking, and Kid’s arms worked tirelessly to catch up to her.

  “You know you’re a very pretty woman, Jackie,” he hollered.

  “Thank you,” she replied dryly.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “I guess you live around here, huh?”

  “You guess right. I’m walking, right?” she replied matter-of-factly.

  The mouth and attitude on her was something else. But it turned The Kid on. He had to shout out his questions for her to hear because she didn’t slow down to listen. She was an eighteen-year-old queen in his eyes. She was beautiful and he was desperate to get to know more about her. She continued to speed walk and Kid’s arms were losing their fuel. He so badly wanted to leap from his wheelchair and take her by her arm and slow her down. She was rude, but it wasn’t a deal breaker.

  “Listen, beautiful, can you just slow down a bit so I can talk to you normally?”

  “I have somewhere important to be,” she shouted.

  “So tomorrow, are you gonna be at the Y?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe not,” she answered with mystery.

  The Kid sighed. Jackie was half a block from him and kept moving hurriedly. The Kid finally stopped pursuing her. He was defeated in chess and now he was defeated in romance. He hoped to see her again. He sat there watching Jackie walk like she had fire to her feet, and then she faded from his view. He figured she lived close by, and he was determined to see her again. Though she was young, she had caught his eye. With Jessica gone, The Kid found a new love interest. It didn’t help that he was horny too—and living with Eshon. Though they were friends, the presence of a woman had his heart thumping loudly.

  The Kid wheeled himself home and thought about Jackie. What was it she didn’t like about him? It had to be the wheelchair—most girls don’t dig a man in a wheelchair. The handicap thing was never-ending. The girls figured that a man being in a wheelchair meant his dick didn’t work, it didn’t get hard, or he didn’t feel a thing, so why bother?

  Get your mind out of the gutter, he thought.

  He made his way home where the front porch had a wheelchair ramp. The living room lights were on, indicating Eshon was home. Kid worked his way up the ramp, placed his key in the lock, and made his way inside.

  Eshon was seated on the couch in the living room. The moment Kid was inside she uttered, “They finally found that bitch!”

  “Found who?”

  “Jessica,” she said. “It’s all over the news. Her body was found somewhere in New Jersey.”

  The Kid was calm and silent. He gaped at the TV. The news segment about Jessica was just ending, but Eshon was just starting up. Her hate for Jessica was still palpable, although Jessica was dead.

  “Devon may be a scary and crazy muthafucka, but he definitely knows how to put in work. I’m glad she’s fuckin’ dead. I hated that bitch,” she proclaimed with much distaste. “Remind me to bake him a cake for this one.”

  The Kid remained silent and still. Most likely, she would never know the truth. He had located and shot Jessica in the head. He was a cold-hearted and calculated killer. He was more dangerous than Devon would ever be. He was smart, but the wheelchair and unassuming appearance would continue to throw everyone off and make Kid appear more amicable than he really was.

  “I know you used to like her, Kid, but I’m glad you didn’t get wit’ that bitch. She was fuckin’ poison and she probably would have ruined your life,” Eshon said.

  “What’s done is done. I’m ready to move on,” he said.

  “We all are. So what’s next for us?”

  It was Eshon’s favorite question. But what was next for them? The Kid wanted to know too.

  “I don’t know right now, Eshon. We’re living here now, in peace with some money, and I kind of like it here. It’s different.”

  “It’s too quiet sometimes.”

  “I don’t mind quiet.”

  “I miss Harlem,” she said.

  “I do too, but Harlem is chaotic right now with the feds, the explosion, and people being homeless. Why Brandy wanted to go back to that, I don’t know. It was a foolish choice.”

  “Where else is she gonna go, Kid? She wanted to leave town, but all she know is Harlem. And all I know is Harlem.”

  “That’s why it’s always good to expand your horizons. If it’s all you know, then it will always be who you are. And the easiest thing in life is to be predictable.”

  “So what you saying? We predictable?”

  “I’m saying, we always going to have to think five, six, and seven moves ahead.”

  “That’s why we have you,” Eshon said.

  “Me, I’m just a nigga in a wheelchair, Eshon. What can I do?”

  “You’re my conscience . . . my guardian angel.”

  “I’m no angel,” he replied.

  “You’re my angel.”

  “Well, your angel finally lost today in chess.”

  Eshon was shocked to hear the news. “What? You lost? How? And to who?”

  “This girl. She simply outmaneuvered me . . . and beat me at my own game,” he said.

  “You lost to a girl?”

  “She was eighteen.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry, Kid,” she said.

  “What is there to be sorry about? It’s only chess, and I’ll get my rematch.”

  “You will.”

  Just then, Eshon’s cell phone rang. She didn’t know the number; her cell phone was new and only a handful of people had her number. She lo
oked at Kid and was hesitant to answer the call.

  “Who is it?” The Kid asked.

  “I don’t know. This number never called me before,” she responded uneasily.

  “Just answer it,” he said.

  She did, pressing the answer button and said tensely, “Hello?”

  “Eshon, it’s me, Brandy. We need to talk,” she said loudly and quickly, like something was wrong.

  “Brandy, why you calling me for a different number?”

  “I was scared to call from mine. But listen, the feds came to see me.”

  “What? Are you serious?” Eshon was shocked by the news.

  “You think I would lie about this shit?”

  Eshon was listening attentively. The mere mention of FBI and Brandy in the same sentence made her heart flutter with apprehension. But it was about to get worse.

  “They’re lookin’ for you,” Brandy said.

  Eshon was suddenly flooded with trepidation and fear. “What, lookin’ for me…why?”

  “They wanna question you about Jessica.”

  “Fuck!” Eshon cursed.

  Jessica was dead, yet she was still a pain in her ass and a risk to Eshon’s life.

  “They gave me their number for you to call.”

  “Did you give ’em my number?”

  “No, I’m not stupid, Eshon. But I think they might be following me and might have my phone tapped. I think that’s why they didn’t take me in.”

  “What did you tell ’em, Brandy? And be very specific.”

  “I told them that the night we last saw each other was at club Sane. I told them that we went to your cousin’s place in Brooklyn—Bed-Stuy, but that’s all I told ’em.”

  Eshon had to sit down.

  The Kid was close by, and he knew something was wrong. He was waiting for Eshon to end her call with Brandy. He had a bunch of questions to ask her. Eshon continued to ask questions. Did they know where she lived? And did they have a warrant out for her arrest?

  The call ended with Eshon receiving Officer Spielberg’s cell phone number and subsequently falling into downright distress. She looked at Kid with an alarmed gaze and said, “The feds are lookin’ for me.”

  “They’re what?” The Kid was stunned.

  “Somehow we’ve been marked into their investigation.”

  “Shit!” he uttered.

  “What we gonna do?”

  The Kid went into combat mode mentally. The FBI looking for Eshon was a problem. The good news was that Jessica was dead, so what else could link them to Meek or any other crime? The bad news was that Eshon was on the FBI’s radar.

  “Brandy gave me a name and a number to call,” she said.

  “What’s the name?”

  “She said his name was Officer Spielberg. I think he’s the one I spoke with about Jessica at the precinct that day.”

  “He’s a city cop? I thought she said it was the feds?”

  “I guess he’s workin’ with the feds.”

  “Okay, this is what we need to do. You calm down, and you need to call him. It might make you look less suspicious if you reach out to them to talk.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s no secret that you and Jessica were once best friends. It was inevitable that the feds were going to find out. People are going to talk.”

  “And what I’m supposed to say to them?”

  “Let me think.”

  Eshon was extremely nervous. She wasn’t ready to tangle with the FBI. She wanted to run away as far as possible—leave town like Brandy once suggested. Maybe her friend was right; New York wasn’t a place for them anymore, and it was time for a change.

  An hour passed. Kid and Eshon went over the story to tell the officer before they called him. It had to be precise. They wanted to throw the cop off. The Kid wanted Eshon to not repeat verbatim what Brandy had told her—about the fight, and about other things. He wanted her to change her voice to sound purely ghetto and go off on tangents and talk about the many arguments that she had with Jessica.

  “Allow the cop to control the conversation. Let him bring you back to corroborate what Brandy said. You can’t let y’all stories sound rehearsed,” The Kid said.

  Eshon nodded. She understood.

  She took a deep breath and dialed Spielberg’s number. It rang. They both were silent. The Kid looked unflappable for the moment, but he knew it all could go wrong within a heartbeat. Eshon just needed to stay cool and keep to the script.

  “This is Officer Spielberg, how can I help you?” Spielberg answered.

  Hearing the cop’s voice, Eshon’s heart almost stopped. For a split moment, she went mute, but then collected herself and did what she was told. “Yeah, this is Eshon Williams. I heard you was lookin’ for me?”

  “Yes, I’m an officer with the 1st precinct investigating the murder of a Jessica Hernandez. When was the last time you saw her alive?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, I heard ’bout that fuckin’ bitch gettin’ murdered and shit like that. She was always a grimy fuckin’ ho,” Eshon proclaimed with contempt.

  “I heard y’all used to be friends.”

  “Key word, we ‘used’ to be friends. And then I couldn’t stand that bitch. She tried to fuck wit’ my man and I don’t play that shit. Why she gotta go fuck wit’ mines, huh? Bitch, get your own fuckin’ man.”

  “And when was the last time you had any contact with her?” he interrupted.

  Eshon sucked her teeth and replied, “I don’t fuckin’ remember, like two, maybe three weeks ago. We got into it. I was ready to snatch that bitch bald headed. Like I said, she was a grimy bitch.”

  “What about club Sane? You were there with her that night, from my understanding?”

  Eshon sighed. “I guess so. I mean, that bitch wanted to make up and become friends wit’ me. I was cool wit’ that bitch, officer. When she moved here from Cali, I befriended that bitch when she had no one. I looked out for that fuckin’ bitch and what this bitch do? She tried to stab me in the fuckin’ back and talk shit ’bout me in the hood. Can you believe that fuckin’ shit? How dare she!”

  Quickly, Officer Spielberg saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this one. She was all over the place, vilifying Jessica’s name and spewing hatred to him about Jessica like he was her therapist. But he continued with his questions.

  “Can you tell me about this new boyfriend of hers?”

  “I heard that bitch got a new man, some clown nigga wit’ money. So why was she tryin’ to fuck my nigga, huh? She’s a selfish fuckin’ bitch, and don’t get it twisted, it’s fucked up that she’s dead, you know what I’m sayin’, but that bitch was living a foul fuckin’ life, real talk, officer.”

  “So you never met this boyfriend?”

  “That bitch never brought him around, like she had something to hide, or thought he was too good to bring him around the fuckin’ hood. But anyway, she better be glad she ain’t fuckin’ introduce him to me—shit—because karma would be a muthafucka and I definitely woulda threw some pussy his way, you fuckin’ feel me, officer?” Eshon proclaimed, loud and clear and ghetto fabulous. “An eye for a fuckin’ eye! And I know I got the bomb-ass pussy—my shit is fuckin’ platinum!”

  A deep sigh escaped his mouth. She was a headache over the phone.

  “Another question, do you know a Stephanie Brown?” he asked.

  Eshon remembered the name she had given to Spielberg that day at the precinct. She reacted with, “She a phony bitch too—some bitch Jessica be chillin’ wit’ lately, bitch tryin’ to be BFF wit’ that fake bitch. We don’t fuckin’ rock like that, officer. But I don’t really know that fuckin’ bitch.”

  Questioning Eshon became a frustrating task for Spielberg. She cursed a lot and she was still angry. It seemed like a dead end. There were more questions, but the s
ame ghetto attitude and anger spewed out.

  By the time he hung up the phone, he was completely convinced that she wasn’t the same girl looking for Jessica at the precinct. There was no love there. And no one knew the name or the location of this mystery man Jessica was seeing. They didn’t even know what he looked like. But he was confident that Jessica’s cell phone records would give them a clue.

  After her talk with the cop, Eshon exhaled loudly.

  The Kid was proud of her. “You did good,” he said.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” she uttered.

  She shot up out the chair and rushed to the bathroom where she threw up chunks into the toilet. Her stomach couldn’t take the stress any longer.

  27

  The EgyptAir flight from Cairo landed at JFK Airport in Queens early in the morning after a thirteen-hour trip. When the plane touched down on the runaway, almost every passenger had jet lag from the long journey across several time zones. Passengers departed the plane and made their way into U.S. Customs to the grueling ritual of passenger and luggage searches, and questioning. Among those trying to make their way through U.S. Customs were Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife, Asma.

  They reached Passport Control where their immigration status had to be confirmed, and their passports and visas were checked; both of theirs were valid.

  And then came the questions.

  “And what is the purpose for your visit to the United States?” a male custom agent asked the couple.

  “Pleasure. Our son is getting married tomorrow,” Shahib answered.

  “And how long will you be staying?” the agent asked.

  “A week,” he said.

  “Do you have anything to declare?”

  “No, sir.”

  He locked eyes with Shahib and watched his movement. Shahib stood in front of the agent dressed in a pair of khaki pants, black sandals, and a white button down shirt. His appearance was strongly Middle Eastern with short-cropped jet-black hair, graying sideburns, and a goatee. He was levelheaded, but deadly—and one-hundred-percent committed to the Al-Qaeda.

  It wasn’t his first trip to the United States, but it had been a long time since he had last set foot on U.S. soil. He remained serene. His wife was the same, standing by her husband’s side with a smile. On the inside, she hated everything about America and despised their government and their ways. She loathed this trip, but it was necessary. She was a beautiful woman dressed a hijab headscarf and an abaya.